


A Truly Desperate Heart

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Also: angst up the wazoo, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Sansa I am SORRY for all the things I always put you through, But once it catches fire it's never going out, F/M, I can't imagine how this is going to turn v wrong v fast, Oh no Petey you've got to take care of your niece, Petyr is a jealous mofo, slow burn as fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-01-01 06:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 126,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12150888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Petyr just found out he has a seventeen-year-old niece, and is charged to take care of her until she becomes of age. It shouldn't be that hard - except the unfatherly thoughts he has towards her makes him harder than he should be.This is going to be a long two weeks.ON HIATUS





	1. petyr

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the novella ‘My New Step-Dad’ by Alexa Riley.  
> [So I read that story over the weekend and literally from the first page it screamed pxs. So naturally I’m gonna convert it into actual pxs fic lmao.  
> This….is gonna be a gods-awful, unashamed trash of a fic, and I hope you love it! ;))) ]

               “What the _fuck_ am I supposed to do with a _seventeen-year-old girl_?”

               Petyr Baelish resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the gods. They were watching – always watching – and now they were _laughing_ at him. As if their torment when he was younger wasn’t enough.

               The man across from him merely shrugged, his bald head catching the lighting. The act was graceful, his voice soft. “Doesn’t matter, honestly. But until she turns eighteen and goes off to university, you _are_ her legal guardian. Her father, I suppose, since hers is long dead… Or have you forgotten how marriages work?”

               No, he hadn’t. But Petyr _had_ forgotten about the niece.

               Petyr cleaned invisible lint from his sleeves. Adjusted the cufflinks – emeralds set in silver, to match the mockingbird perched upon his tie. “Listen, Varys. We both know I don’t have the _time_ to deal with a teenage girl right now. It doesn’t matter that she’s legally mine to put up with.”

               If Petyr didn’t know better, he would think that the small tug at Varys’ lips was a crude _enjoyment_ at Petyr’s situation. What was he kidding – of course it was. The spider and the mockingbird held a very tense _friendship_. “Well, it’s only for two weeks. Her school records are impeccable – I doubt she could be much trouble. Besides, if I recall correctly, you had to be husband to Lysa for much, much longer…”

               Everyone, deep down, knew or at least understood the _true nature_ of Lysa’s marriage to Petyr. And that it was: Petyr didn’t have much a say in the arrangement all those years ago. And long before that, at Riverrun… The girl had always been annoyingly persistent. A pity Petyr didn’t have the balls to tell her off, thinking it _unchivalrous_ to do so.

               So, with the years passed between then and now, it was either agree to the unwanted companionship of Lysa, or to remain stuck in a junior position.

               Petyr was, after all, _no one_. Genial? Yes. Capable of finding obscure details in cases that got them turned in his client’s favor? Always. Surprisingly good at it, too, especially when the issue dealt with numbers. Petyr was oh-so clever with numbers.

               But all of that could get him so far. The largest firms in Westeros were all about _money_ and _names_. Petyr had neither.

               Until he married Lysa. Then he had both. And a wife, of whom he didn’t particularly care for.

               Well, it was an absolute shame that his dear Lysa succumbed to a heart attack at the ripe old age of forty-four. She couldn’t live without her sweet robin.

               He had mustered enough tears at both funerals, though. Made sure his voice cracked in all the right places as he delivered a touching farewell speech. Even Lysa’s friends (a surprise to Petyr that she _had any_ ) wished him courage in the solitary days ahead. _To lose both wife and son in the same week…_ Petyr thanked them graciously for their kind words. Made sure his handkerchief was sodden with tears and snot. No one but Varys caught the lie in his tears.

               Small Petyr Baelish was now a man with money and name and no bleeding wife.

               Save for Petyr, the Spider was the only man alive who knew where Petyr’s heart truly lay. And that was – and always would be – with himself.

               But did Varys _know_ ? Staring into the softness of his face, the coldness of his eyes – Petyr couldn’t help but wonder time and again: _did Varys know?_ That was something Petyr hadn’t quite figured out in the months that passed since his dear wife’s untimely death.

               (It was then – sitting in his office, months after the funeral – that Petyr realized the niece hadn’t been there. She might have had exams during it. Or perhaps she wasn’t particularly close to her aunt. Far more likely – especially since Petyr could only remember Lysa speaking of her in passing in the beginning of their marriage. And gods-knew Lysa herself wasn’t particularly close with any family save her Robert. Petyr realized that no one invited the niece to her aunt’s funeral. Did anyone tell her that she was all alone now? _Except for me_. The thought soured the longer it sat in his stomach).

               Petyr inhaled. Held it for several long seconds, counting them off in his head: one, two, three…

               “When does she arrive?” Because _it was going to happen_ , whether Petyr wanted it to or not. The girl was an orphan without Petyr, and still legally a child. And kind, genial Petyr couldn’t very well turn away his dear niece when she needed him.

               Varys, too, found lint on the immaculate sleeves of his embroidered coat. He found it far more interesting than the mask Petyr hid behind. “Tomorrow night, I believe. Her last semester just finished Friday. University begins at the end of the month. And her birthday, as I’ve said, is in two weeks. You’re legally free to kick her out by then.”

               The Spider claimed to know just as much about Lysa’s niece as Petyr did. And yet the Spider knew _a lot more_ than he let on.

               But tomorrow…

               “Tomorrow’s the annual Lannister gala.”

               Varys shrugged again. He was built for that: shrugging and shrewding. “Then you better pray she arrives before then.”

               Petyr did it then, rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. The gods were cruel and wicked and enjoyed their little games. Varys left with a bow and a knowing smile – maybe the bald man was a trickster god walking amongst mortals. Petyr wouldn’t be surprised.

                _What if I pray she doesn’t arrive at all?_

* * *

               Petyr stared out the window of his apartments, sipping slowly on a finger of whiskey.

               He helped Kella rearrange Robert’s bedroom for his niece, outfitting it with the bare necessities that a seventeen-year-old girl would need. Which, thankfully, Kella was more than happy to deal with. Petyr never wanted children of his own, and especially not with someone like Lysa. It was torture enough having to sleep with her to sate her lust. To listen to her shrill cries as she came. Petyr shivered. It was a blessing he was sort-of friends with a pharmacist down in the Merchant’s Quarter. A dosage or two of mashed up sleeping pills in her dinner, and Petyr didn't have to deal with his wife.

               “After she arrives, I can go buy your daughter more appropriate furnishings and clothing.” Kella said though it came out a lot like a question.

               “ _Niece_ ,” Petyr corrected her. “And no, that's quite alright. She won't be around long enough for all that effort.”

               Kella nodded and went back to work. Petyr meanwhile shuffled through Lysa’s binders and boxes full of work. She had a lower position at the firm than Petyr, something in administration (which worked out in his favor. He could get all the gossip of the company, all the candidates and competitors who worked elsewhere in the city, without having to employ little birds like Varys). So it was no shock that other lawyers – junior or not – eyed Petyr with skepticism as he climbed up to an associate position at such a young age, and just before Lysa passed. (Granted, forty-one wasn't _old_. Not today, with some people well over a hundred and still kicking. But the amount of silver that peppered his hair made him look older. Feel older). It would have been easier had Lysa been around for a year at least, to plant himself firmly amongst the big shots who ran King's Landing. Oh well.

               Which was another reason he didn't want to deal with his niece. He didn't have the _time_ for a bratty teenager. Or the fatherly love to put up with one.

               So now he waited. For an hour, at least. Fidgeting with the glass and the mockingbird pin clasped upon a silken emerald tie. The Lannister gala was the poshest event in King’s Landing, and every year the Lions tried to outdo themselves. It was _nauseating_ . But they were good clients, and not because they had an infinite amount of problems they wanted Petyr to magically dissolve. But they paid handsomely, and never questioned _how_ vital reports worked in their favor, or how witnesses would change their story during trial.

               The issue: Petyr wasn’t up to kissing ass tonight. It was this _stupid revelation_ that had been sitting uneasily in his stomach all today and yesterday. He'd dealt with little Robert, and if his niece was anything like her cousin...

                _At least she would be gone in two weeks_. That was the only solace in this whole mess. Two weeks – and then Petyr could go back to peaceful solitude.

               His phone rang. Here it was, here _she_ was. No going back now. Petyr downed the rest of the drink before answering on the third ring. “Hello?”

                Oswell's voice was low and curt: “There’s a Miss Royce here to see you.”

               Petyr...was both surprised, and not surprised at all.

               “Send her up.”

               The man grunted his acknowledgement before hanging up. Something Petyr enjoyed about his man: he didn’t bother wasting words. He also didn’t bother giving words away for free. Of which Petyr made sure he was the highest bidder.

               But Myranda… She was a devil of a creature, even when Petyr was still (un)happily married to Lysa. Only a year and a half out of law school, and desperate to climb as high as Petyr. Higher. That, he admired about the girl.

               It was the _looks_ she gave him during meetings that unsettled him. As if mentally _devouring_ him. It was the way she sidled up beside him at socials whenever Lysa couldn't attend, careful where exactly she rested her hand. It was the low-cut of her dresses, the tightness of shirts with buttons screaming against her chest as she leant over his desk to ask questions about whatever inconsequential documents she brought with her.

               Calling her a wolf in sheep’s clothing didn’t do the girl justice.

               Petyr casually mentioned going with Myranda to the gala to get her to stop her advances. They weren't _unwelcome_ necessarily, but he couldn't jeopardize the careful facade of Good Husband he built with with Lysa. But that was before Lysa died. Now he had to be Good and Faithful Widow. Annoying. But since they were both single now, it would be difficult to excuse Myranda away tonight. Especially when she went through all the trouble to pick him up. _Though she's early_.

               Sex _would_ help ease the nerves. It's what Myranda wanted. Why else would she have arrived early, if not to begin what she thought started in the office with her constant teasing and sharp words? And if it led to Petyr favoring her over other new hires during promotions, well, at least she wasn’t ashamed of using her body for it.

               At least she would be useful.

                _Ding_.

               “If I had known you shacked it up somewhere _this_ nice, I would have gone ahead and done Lysa in myself a lot sooner.”

               Petyr smiled at the girl, with mouth only. His eyes stared into her, not at all brushing over her words. It was the same underlying shrewdness of Varys, careful words that implied she _knew._ But in a much _nicer_ body.

               Her dress hung on one shoulder, hugging her soft curves in a cloak of black. Strategic cutaways slimmed her ample frame whilst pronouncing the size of her breasts and length of her legs. Even with heels, she stood a few inches short of him. Petyr imagined many men died between her thick thighs.

               And above it, perched carefully on her lips – a smile to rival the devil’s.

               Oh, Petyr would need to be _very careful_ around this one.

               He approached her, circling Myranda and eyeing the cut of the dress. It was beautifully made, that was sure. He couldn’t help but wonder whose cock she sucked to afford it. “I do wonder who you were planning to seduce at the gala with that dress?”

               Myranda eyed him all the while, thriving off his attention. She flipped thick brown tresses over her shoulder. Petyr caught a scent of her perfume. _Roses_. As if to mock the innocence she clearly didn't hold anymore. “Whoever is willing to buy me drinks, I suppose. Though if I could ensnare that young Lion…”

               Petyr finished his circuit of her body. “A veritable _feast_ of men willing. But I wouldn't get your hopes up for the Lion, sweet. The boy prefers women without curves. Or a brain.”

               “So what does that make you?” Petyr dragged his gaze up from analyzing fabric, up the expanse of her exposed neck, to her full lips. Her devilish smile crooked _more_ that what Petyr thought was humanly possible. If Varys was the trickster god, Myranda was the god of desire.

               “I'm not an impertinent _child_ , if that's what you mean.”

               Myranda closed the short gap between them, placing her hand dangerously close to his cock. Fingers trailing across the expanse of his slacks, _knowing_ full well what the motions were doing. Having done it tens, _hundreds_ , of times. “Good.”

               There were three heartbeats in which Petyr should have brushed Myranda away as a _grieving_ widow. In which he should have continued to ignore the distraction of sex and desire. In which he should have caught the dark gleam in her eyes.  But he didn't stop her. And on the third, she rose on her toes and kissed him.

               Petyr kissed back, tangling one hand in her thick curls and the other digging into her hip. There was enough time for _a quick one_. Though – with the ease with which her hand finally found his cock, languidly stroking it – Petyr had the ill feeling that Myranda wouldn't be satiated with one.

               She giggled into his mouth, as if hearing his thoughts.

               His hand on her hips trailed across her back, the dress doing nothing to cover skin. Fingers trailed along the edge between fabric and flesh. Myranda mewled as he pulled her into him, his cock a hard press against her soft stomach.

                _Ding_.

               He'd nearly forgotten about who he was actually expecting.

               In the seconds between the _ding_ and the door sliding open, Petyr wondered whether or not his niece would be bothered by the sight of her uncle entwined with another woman. It had been months since Lysa's passing – certainly the unspoken rule of widowhood didn't extend this far.

               Myranda tugged at the teeth of his zipper, edging her fingers beneath fabric. She trailed her mouth from his lips, down his jaw, latching onto neck with tongue and teeth. His own fingers roamed around the fine fabric of her dress, slowly dipping beneath the low cut of her back. She was so soft and willing – Petyr imagined she’d let him have his way.

               That's when Petyr saw _her_.

               Red was the first thing he saw. Sheaths of it, coiling and tumbling onto her shoulders, a cascade of autumnal fire. Ivory skin, unmarred and pure, endless inches of it. Her face was as red as her hair, so embarrassed at the _impure_ sight before her. Brows shot up in surprise, mouth an O. He stared at _that_ and wondered if they were as soft as they looked. If they would be as soft and gentle wrapped around his cock.

               In the back of his mind, Petyr had been expecting someone like Robert. Small, frail. As annoying as the mother who latched onto Petyr and never let go.

               But this... _her_ …

               Petyr couldn’t find the words to describe the thrum inside his ribs. Or the throb between his legs.

               When Myranda pushed him to cup his cock through briefs, it was hard. Harder than it had been all evening. She giggled into his neck at it. Thinking _she’d_ done it. Her wicked mouth, her wandering hands. It wasn’t for this woman who latched herself onto him, the woman with full breasts and a wicked tongue.

               But for the girl that watched in horror.

               Petyr dragged Myranda’s hand from his slacks, disengaging her mouth. He tried (as best he could) to rearrange his cock beneath fabric. He whispered, “Later,” to Myranda, leaving her with her own dismissed desire as he approached his niece. “I'm sorry you had to see that. I was expecting you earlier.”

               Up close, she was far more beautiful. And her _eyes_ , gods-damn. Big and blue and curious. And her _lips_ , too, closed now but just as pink and soft. Her everything – there wasn’t one thing about her that he couldn’t not stare at. Petyr caught a whiff of citrus emanating from her skin. He couldn’t help but wonder if all of her tasted like that.

               The girl looked at Petyr, at Myranda. She licked her lips, the movement drawing Petyr's gaze. “I would have thought you'd expect me _later_ …”

               “Ah.” Petyr couldn't help the smile that twitched at his lips. Beautiful _and_ clever. He curled his toes inside his leather shoes to ease the ache between his thighs. Offered his niece a hand. “Petyr. I’m sorry for the loss of your aunt.”

               She stared at it. Wondering, probably, _where_ it had seated itself just moments ago. Thankfully the most it touched was skin. Imagine that: the sight of greeting his lovely niece with another woman’s need coating fingers slick.

               Infinite heartbeats passed before she shook his hand. _Soft_. Her skin was so soft, Petyr couldn’t help but rub his thumb in circles over the back of her palm. Needing to touch her. She watched him – only watched, but didn’t recoil – before dragging her eyes back onto his. “Sansa. Hi.”

                _Sa- n- sa-_

               Would it trill off his tongue just as beautifully as he fucked her?

               Petyr shook the thought out. Smiled at her, and hoped his base intentions didn’t seep through the mask. “I can show you around the apartments. We’re off to a gala, so unfortunately you’ll be alone for tonight.”

               Sansa shot a gaze at Myranda behind Petyr. He couldn’t help but wonder what her thoughts were. What this _lovely_ first impression was. Not kind, if he was being honest. “Sure. Thanks.”

               So Petyr kept distance between them as he walked his niece around. Here was the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. Over there was a wall of windows overlooking the city. Lysa hadn’t wanted to spare any expense for their _home_ , so Petyr made sure to buy the most expensive apartments. To please his wife, yes, and to hide away from the prying eyes of the rabble. If only they knew how much he _despised_ his wife in quiet moments…

               “My room is the last of the hall,” he pointed out. “Your aunt’s office was this one here. Feel free to go through and keep whatever you want. I’ll be clearing it out at the end of the month.”

               She nodded.

               “And this sweetling is yours.” Petyr let her open the door. It wasn’t anything grand. Kella did a fine job in clearing out all the unnecessary things and knickknacks Robert piled, which now sat boxed up in Lysa’s office. As Sansa assessed her temporary living quarters, Petyr had to wonder why he pointed out the other rooms. Was he _expecting_ Sansa to go to his own bedroom?

               He saw it. The quiet padding of her feet down the hall. His door swinging open on silent hinges. The dip of his mattress, knees walking from the edge towards the center. Slow, curious fingers running across his chest. Down to where his need ached for her. Her cries as he took her for the first time. The second. The third...

               Petyr adjusted his stance, trying to hide his cock.

                _She’s seventeen_ , he chided himself. _She’s your gods-damn niece_.

                _She’s eighteen in two weeks_ , a vile whisper reminded himself. _You wouldn’t have to wait that long..._

               He coughed. To get her attention, yes. But that was worse, because now the entire seas of the world stared into him with an innocent curiosity. How quickly would she run out of here if she knew the depravity of his thoughts? Not fast enough. “If you need anything else, feel free to ask. I’ve a housekeeper, Kella. She’ll be in tomorrow morning, and you can ask for things too should I not be around.” Something urged him to add, “I hope you’ll find happiness here.”

               Sansa blinked at him. All of this was likely as strange to her as it was to him. “Thank you.”

               Was it strange to hope she would say his name?

               “Well then. Good night, Sansa.”

               She only nodded, waiting for him to leave. Not willing to give Petyr that bit of satisfaction. That bit of fodder for tonight when he would imagine his hand was hers.

               Petyr collected Myranda on his way to the elevator. His thoughts a raucous jumble.

               What was Sansa, exactly? His _niece_ , yes, because Lysa only had Robert. Catelyn and Eddard were dead, as was the rest of Sansa's family. All she had was Lysa. Maybe some distant second-cousins and the like, some who might have enjoyed the girl’s presence. But Lysa, in her horrid kindness, sent Sansa away to Highgarden for boarding school the minute she was entrusted to her. Four years ago, Petyr had legally been her uncle (or father? The whole situation was muddy). Four years, and Petyr never even _met_ Sansa until today.

               And now he was expected to take care of her.

               And now he was thinking what, exactly, _taking care_ entailed.

               Did it include taking care of her just as a father might? Giving her food and room and clothes. Love and affection and whatever else loving fathers might dole on their sweet daughters.

               Did it include taking care of her just as a father _shouldn’t_? Giving her orgasms and caving in to the feel of her mouth around his cock. Her hands stroking him. Her cunt warm and welcoming as he thrust into her.

               Petyr dragged his hand down his face. _Gods_ , he was all sorts of messed up.

               Myranda looked up at Petyr through thick lashes. Her face was still flushed from their abrupt end - it was likely she would want to find a quiet corner at the gala and finish what she started. “Something wrong, Mr Baelish?”

               Here was a woman more than willing to spread her legs for him. Granted, Myranda wanted things, too, like a swift jump up the ladder and security in the firm. And she was a _woman_ , with a womanly figure and knowledge how to please him.

               So why the fuck was the sight of red curls and ocean blue eyes ingrained on the back of his eyelids?

               It’s as if the moment he lay eyes on Sansa, his body, his heart, _knew_ what it truly, desperately wanted.

               The realization alone made his entire body ache.

               Petyr – after several long seconds – dragged his gaze away from the panel of buttons, watching the numbers descend to Lobby. Myranda had her head tilted towards him, watching. “Nothing at all, sweet.” He fixed the back of her dress where his hand had been oh-too-willing to descend minutes ago (he let his fingers creep along the edge, just enough to ease Myranda away from her own revelation). Now, the motions felt bland. _Unappetizing_.

               “Nothing at all,” he repeated with a small kiss to the back of her neck.

                _Except that I want to fuck my niece._


	2. sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Okay. Wow. I honestly didn't expect the first chapter to be such a hit??? Like, I know this ship is trash and we’re all on board the Hell Express to Sintown, but...wow. I love you guys so so much!!! :D
> 
> Also I'm sorry it's a bit later than I thought! 1) I’ve been hella busy with work. 2) I ended up writing an outline for this – and uh it's going to be less straight up shameless smut and more drama (with sin ofc). Trust me, I didn't see this coming either lol
> 
> Still – I hope you'll like what I've got in store!!]

              Sansa didn't like it here.

              The _smell_ hit her first. An amalgamation of salty seawater and vehicle congestion and human gods-knew-what littering curbs and planters. Nothing at all like the sweetness of Highgarden, or the crisp cleanness of the North.

              There were the cars that almost hit her next. And the cloistering press of bodies and buildings. And the lack of anything green but what people smoked in shady corners and bus stands. Why _anyone_ would call this terrible place home was beyond her.

               _Two weeks,_ she reminded herself, resting her hand on the window. A deep breath fogged the pane. It was cool – not _cold_ , not like how home would be right now. The chill of snow, the warmth of a mug of hot chocolate between her hands. She drew nonsensical shapes with her fingernail, digging in hard enough to shriek. _Two weeks, and then I'll be married_.

              It might not have been the _wisest_ plan, but it was the best her and Margaery had come up with months ago. _Years ago,_ in truth, when Sansa had first stepped into Highgarden and was greeted by the warm embrace of her now-dear friend. _We could be sisters, you and me_ , Margaery had said, an ear-to-ear grin spread over her face. A joke, maybe, to soften Sansa’s _rejection_ by her own family. A joke because Sansa missed her own sister.

              And then they thought: Why not? Margaery always wanted a sister, and Sansa just wanted to be finally accepted.

              There wasn't anyone left for Sansa, anyways. Her parents had passed away first years ago, just before Robb became an adult. They all thought (in childish fantasies) that the agency would let them all stay with Robb, since he was practically old enough to take care of them anyways. They didn't. They didn't even let them stay _together_ in the end. One child here, one child there. Not listening to their pleas, not seeing the tears streaming puffed faces.

              Of them, Robb was the only one she knew who died. He joined the military, already had plans to do it which their mother heavily disliked. Jon joining the military was one thing – he wasn’t their _true_ sibling. But Robb was the eldest child of Catelyn and Eddard Stark. Robb was supposed to be the _smartest_ , the most practical. Sansa thought he might change his mind after their parents died but… But their deaths seemed to urge him further into battle.

              And then his head exploded into shrapnel of bone and blood.

              Sansa shook the image from her head.

              To her knowledge, the rest of her siblings were alive. _Where_ they were, though...Sansa didn't know. Because Arya ran away from her foster home weeks after she was assigned there. Bran and Rickon, she heard, had transferred between so many hands, it was dizzying to keep track.

              Sansa – polite, graceful Sansa – was given to the Tyrells and proved herself to be as mindful of her manners as her mother ingrained in her. She didn't have anything else. No skills in sneaking out, no knack for battles and warfare, no desire to leave Highgarden and life early. She begrudgingly accepted what was given to her, and smiled through the heavy ache in her chest.

              It should be noted that all of this switching around – all of this separation – was due in part because the person who should have loved them, should have wanted them when their own parents left, didn't.

              Lysa scoffed at them the moment she saw them. Mumbled complaints that Edmure would have been better off with these _things_ (though he'd been riotously drunk since Catelyn's passing just shortly after Hoster Tully’s. He often fell into bouts of madness, an empty bottle clutched in his hand. Crying out that his sister and her husband had been offed by men clad in black. So often were these shouts that the foster system immediately deemed him _unfit_ to care for children). Hardly a week passed after all the forms were signed and the remaining Starks transferred before Lysa organized this entire system to rid herself of the _burden_ . “I already have one,” she sneered over their last (and perhaps only) dinner together. Wine stained her thin lips crimson. The Stark children all heard Lysa's unspoken words: _Why would I want four more?_

              Sansa remembered the glinting ring on her aunt (or new mother's?) hand. It was five times bigger than the one that once wrapped Catelyn’s finger, with so many jewels Sansa was surprised her aunt didn't cut herself on them. She remembered, too, the glinting in her aunt's eye when she looked at it.

              Sansa vowed to detest (silently, of course; a lady doesn't vocalize her _displeasure_ with such obviousness) whoever gave her that ring.

              Whoever broke her family apart.

* * *

              There wasn't a front door here, ten stories above the city, everything spread out before them. As if they _owned_ it. The entire floor was one set of apartments, accessed only through that elevator. The rooms were large, open, and filled with minimal decor it was hard to tell that the place was lived. Perhaps it was different when Lysa was still alive. Nonetheless, the whole thing was extra. Precise, clean and spotless and practically brand new. What was the point of all of this _stuff_ if it was just going to sit around and not be used?

              It was the sorts of _wasteful extravagance_ Sansa came to expect from her aunt and her aunt's lover.

              The _ding_ and the low rumble of the elevator echoed through the walls and the glass. Sansa counted a few heartbeats before she crawled off her bed and went looking for something to eat. As much as she wanted to hole herself in this room for two weeks...her body, unfortunately, wouldn't let her.

              She had to admit that part of this sneaking around – would Arya be proud of her? – was due in part to her new uncle. The way she was _greeted_ with the sight of him seconds away from fucking that woman right there in the entryway. The way his gaze snagged on her: frozen in place, forgetting the woman in his arms, or the need he tried and failed to conceal.

              The way his lips crooked at the edge. The way he clenched his fist as he showed her around. The way he stood a hair's breadth too close, the heat and scent of him lingered long after he left.

              Sansa shivered.

              She was surprised to see the fridge and cabinets were stocked, clean. The granite counter spotless. Everything was where it should be (everything but herself), so much so that Sansa worried she walked onto the showroom sets of furniture stores. A male widow, she thought, wouldn't be so good with chores and cleaning.

              And then she remembered the housekeeper – Kella, she thought – who must have kept everything in order. Of course.

              Sansa let the cold air of the fridge wash over her as she stared without registering anything. If she closed her eyes, then maybe – _maybe –_ she could pretend like she was back in Winterfell. Her parents still dozing in their bed, wrapped tightly. Her siblings running around outside, pelting each other with snowballs or playing tag. Their wolves following them around, soft fur, the scent of the woods clinging to their pets.

              She wiped wayward snot when she heard that familiar _ding_. Sansa wouldn't want the housekeeper to think ill of her. It was bad enough that she walked in on her uncle snogging it up with some woman.

              Sansa put on a smile and willed the puffiness from her eyes. The fridge door closed with hardly a click.

              The woman was much older than Sansa expected, and not nearly as beautiful. Perhaps Sansa had been expecting someone like the woman from last night – beautiful and capable of seducing men with her more-than-ample breasts, along with her knowledge of what to do with them. But the housekeeper was ordinary. Fat around the waist, hair that was half-grey and half-brown.

              Sansa couldn't ignore the _relief_ at seeing this woman instead of her uncle. An ugly part of her feared (or hoped? Either way there was a swarm of butterflies in her tummy that hadn’t stopped since she first stepped out of the elevator last night) that she'd be stuck alone with him. She could remember the way his gaze made her skin crawl. The way he looked _through_ her, her clothes and skin and delved deep inside her very being. The way his hands itched to touch her. Explore her. Feel her, inside and out. With fingers at first, and then–

              Sansa violently shook the thought from her head. “Do you need help?” she offered, approaching the housekeeper with her practiced smile and warmth. She might practically be an orphan, but Sansa would never forget her manners.

              The woman – momentarily lost in her thoughts – jumped at the sight of Sansa. “Oh.” Her gaze roved over her, appraising her with a kinder eye than the sort her uncle had given her last night. Sansa shivered again at that memory, goose pimples littering her arms and legs.

              It was then that Sansa remembered she was still wearing her pajamas. No matter – the housekeeper wouldn't care, Sansa _was_ just a child after all. Besides, from last night's performance, Sansa couldn't help but giggle at the thought that Kella had seen much, _much_ worse from her ward.

              A pity Sansa was too much a lady to ask about such things.

              “I'm Sansa. Nice to meet you.” She stuck out her hand, kept a smile on her face.

              The woman adjusted the boxes she was carrying and took it, a warm crushing embrace. “Ah, so _you're_ the daughter that Petyr has to take care of…”

               _Was that his name?_ Sansa pursed her lips at the realization that the list of things she knew about her uncle stopped at 1: Was married to my aunt Lysa. “Yes, although I'm his _niece_ , actually. My mother was his wife's sister.”

              Kella – whether knowing all the gossip or not – caught on to the usage of _was_. “I'm so sorry for your loss, Sansa. But I promise, you'll like it here. A bit stuffy, but all the same good.”

              Was she talking about King's Landing, or the man she looked after? It didn’t matter. “Oh, no,” Sansa corrected. “I'm between school right now. In two weeks I'll be off to university in Highgarden. So I won't be much trouble for you or my uncle.”

              Kella accepted the lie without a moment's doubt. “I see. Congratulations, and good luck at university!” The housekeeper readjusted the boxes in her arms again. “Well, Sansa, if you wouldn't mind, I've groceries and supplies in the elevator that needs lugging in?”

              “Of course.”

              They spent the better part of the morning doing some minor cleaning to an already clean set of rooms. Sansa took the task of wiping down the huge window whilst Kella did her cleaning duties in uncle Petyr's room (Kella asked Sansa if she's like to help, but that just felt like a huge invasion of privacy. They might be relatives, but they were strangers in truth).

              Sansa waited for Kella to finish, taking a peek into the room he had pointed out as Lysa's office. It was packed with boxes on the floor, on the huge redwood desk, even the swivel chair was a mess of papers and clutter. Flipping the lids open, there was a mix of binders (filled with _more_ papers), some knickknacks that definitely were her aunt's, and smaller sets of boxes with boyish clothes and toys. Another box with blankets painted with superheroes or embroidered with falcons. Tucked beneath those was a small box of empty medicine bottles.

              Sansa never met Robert – she’d heard gossip he was small, always sick, and much loved by his mother despite him being far too old for such things. He would have just started high school, had he not…

              No matter how much Sansa detested Lysa for how she broke apart her siblings, it wasn't fair for the gods to take Lysa's only son away from her.

              And then, as if they hadn't enough, the gods took Lysa, too.

              “Feel free to take what you will. Petyr will be organizing movers to shuffle all this cra-, er, stuff, out.”

              Sansa had her hands on the lip of one of Robert's boxes. She fingered the sweater on top: sky blue with cream stripes. It was the softest material, softer than the sorts of dresses and scarves Sansa used to have back in Winterfell. Something about touching the dead boy’s things brought on a new-found courage. “Why hasn't my uncle got rid of these things already?”

              It had been _months_ , after all. Sansa couldn't fathom him _actually in love_ with her aunt. Couldn’t fathom anyone willingly giving their heart to that wretched woman. Definitely _not_ her uncle. Not by the way he'd had his hands all over that woman last night.

              Not by the way he mentally undressed Sansa as he smiled at her.

              “Can't say. Not my business to _ask_ , especially on such a delicate matter.”

              They finished the small list of tasks. During it, Kella was more than willing to answer Sansa's questions. The _not delicate_ ones, at least. General information about what to do in the city, about the weather, about the politics. And innocent ones about her dear uncle – what kind of person was he, what he did to live in such a nice place. Despite the ease with which she ate Sansa's lie earlier, Kella was a lot more perceptive than she let on. She was careful with her words, like she learned to lie a long, long time ago.

              “Well, Petyr works late at a big-shot law firm, so unfortunately you won't see much of him during your visit.” The housekeeper pursed her lips like she'd eaten a particularly sour lemon. But the late nights would explain why the apartments felt so un-lived in.

              “Did he love my aunt?” In truth?

              Kella’s head wavered, obviously unsure _how much_ to reveal. Why, Sansa didn’t know. “I like to think so, as much as anyone could. But he’s a secretive man, that Petyr.”

               _And so are you_.

              Almost everything was already clean, unused. Kella was really only necessary for bringing in groceries and the odds and ends – fresh bottles of shampoo and soap, replacement razors, light bulbs. His late nights meant more chances Sansa _wouldn't_ run into her uncle.

              Good.

              Sansa never failed to catch the familiarity Kella had in addressing the man by his first name. Sansa stared at Kella whilst the woman had her back turned, dusting whatever was exposed of the desk around the boxes piled in Lysa's study. Dark grey hair overtaking the brown, wrinkles lining thick hands and arms and neck. But she wasn't weak, or frail. She could have been old enough to be her uncle's mother. Was she?

              “Petyr said I'm to take you shopping for clothes and the like?”

              Sansa thought about her suitcase, how precisely she had packed it for two weeks and nothing more. There wasn't meant to be more to this farce of a trip, anyways. Merely a way to wait out the time while Margaery got the wedding planned for her brother. While Sansa counted down the days until she was legally able to say goodbye to her new uncle/father.

              New clothes _would_ be nice. Especially since King’s Landing was far stickier than Highgarden, even in the winter. Sansa knew she'd need to wash her clothes sometime in the two weeks to rid herself of the filth. Assuming no passersby threw up on her.

              Could she get her uncle to pay for her wedding dress? Margaery offered to pay for it (“Since sisters buy each other nice things”), but Sansa felt ill asking so much of her friend. Sansa looked around the apartments, through the wall of glass that overlooked the city. He certainly wasn't _unaccustomed_ to throwing money around. Nor was he unaccustomed to throwing money around for the women he took a fancy to. Had he tossed jewels and expensive dates (and that scandalous dress) on the woman who he'd clung to last night? Probably.

              More than that was the flashing of the jaunty ring perched like a trophy on Lysa's finger. The haughty laugh as Lysa flicked away her sister's children without so much as a second glance. Oh, but Lysa gave second and third and fourth glances to that hideous ring. To whomever gave it to her.

              Sansa clenched her fist, her teeth. Tighter, until the nails threatened to break skin.

              "I'll take that as a ‘no’, then?”

              Sansa forgot about Kella. The woman was staring at her, smiling, a glint to her warm eyes. There was such an ease about her. A kindness, too. Perhaps Kella had missed having someone to take care of, more than the ephemeral presence of Sansa's uncle. Sansa would at least miss someone here when she left for Highgarden.

              As much as she wanted to, Sansa shook her head, plastering another smile onto her lips and loosening her fist. “Thank you, but maybe we can go out later. I wanted to have a look around the city today, if you don't mind?” _Alone_.

              Kella was smart enough not to pressure her. “Of course. Here, I'll leave you my number in case you change your mind. Feel free to contact me should you ever need anything.”

              Sansa waved the woman goodbye as the elevator doors slid shut quietly.

              She changed into practical clothes, a light sweater above it all, before descending down the elevator herself. She realized she hasn't eaten breakfast, and it was nearing lunch. She thought about asking Kella what would be a good place to eat, but decided against it. Kella was a kindly old woman, yes, but she was under the coin of uncle Petyr. Sansa was just _a little_ paranoid (whether rightfully or not) that Kella was already in cahoots with him about the sort of girl Sansa was.

              So Sansa meandered through those narrow, sticky streets, trying to look at it differently. At the way the winding streets were cobbled with stones that peasants and kings walked on centuries ago. The way buildings in the heart of the city reached across the street for each other, aching to touch but never connecting. The way the Red Keep stood proud and defiant to the east, peeking between modern structures of steel and glass to remind her that the city was far older, had seen countless reigns of kings and – in stories at least – dragons. Sansa thought she might learn to love it here a little bit, if she needed to.

              She didn’t imagine loving it when someone squatted by the side of the road and relieved themselves.

              King’s Landing wasn't _home_ per se. Nothing would ever compare to Winterfell: the rolling fields, the mountains, the brisk chill that worked its way into your very soul. Sansa's _true_ home. Only, the thought of Winterfell silent, filled only with the fading whispers of laughter and the ghosts of her loved ones...Sansa’s heart ached at the idea.

              If she went there now, would she be the only living thing among a sea of ghosts?

              The thought alone sent a chill down her spine. _Willas will take me to visit,_ she reasoned. Or at least send Margaery in his stead.

              Sansa blocked out her mind and eventually followed her stomach. Well, she followed people who talked about some plaza a few blocks away that had food. And at the moment, Sansa reasoned that maybe food would help her forget about the gnawing hole in her heart.

              The plaza was huge. Set on the ground floor between buildings, it stretched for an entire block, and the entire block of it was packed with vendors shouting their wares and customers shuffling through the narrow aisles. It was sticky here, too. The sort that comes from intoxicating food wafting between the spaces of bodies lining up. And each vendor sold something completely different from the ones beside it. Perhaps if she ever had the chance to study, she would have the chance to learn about it. The history of the city, the architecture behind its buildings, the politics that went on in the glittering Red Keep. A pity she didn't accept any of her offers for university.

              Her stomach growled at the expanse of food before her. King’s Landing had been – and still was – a hub of community and trade. The plaza was proof of it. Every sort of food was for sale here, from all across Westeros and even reaching across to Essos. The whole world condensed into a single city block.

              Margaery told her a secret when they went on late-night adventures for dinner. “Whichever has the longest line is almost always the best food.”

              “But then you'd have to wait forever to eat it…?”

              “True.” Margaery gave Sansa a crooked grin, throwing her arm around her shoulder. “But the wait will be worth it when you finally get it in you. It always is.”

              Sansa had a feeling her friend wasn't talking about food.

              She stood in a line that wrapped around the entire section of vendors. It moved fast, but every few seconds they had to scramble apart to let people go through. No one complained about it (at least vocally) – it was just the way things were. After long minutes that felt like hours, Sansa had a warm gyro and a gnawing hunger in her stomach from the wondrous smells that tempted her away from her line.

              There wasn't room to eat inside, so Sansa walked two blocks down to a park, finding a clean edge of a planter to sit on. She looked around her, at the artificially rolling hills and the children running on it. The neatly-trimmed bushes lining the concrete walk. It seemed so…odd to see this much grass and flowers somewhere so packed.

              Sansa counted the palm trees that lined the perimeter of the park, towering guards of their green oasis. There were at least fifty, but hardly any more than that. A stark reminder that she wasn’t home. As if the sounds and smells of the city didn't clue her in.

              Carefully she unwrapped the edge of her gyro and took a bite. _Gods_ , it _was_ good – Margaery was right. Sansa couldn’t help the bit of a _moan_ that escaped her as she bit in again, wiping away errant sauce on her lips with her thumb. (Admittedly half of the _deliciousness_ was from the fact she hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. Too in shock with her welcoming to bother to eat anything last night).

              “I’ll have what you’re having.”

              Sansa felt her face flush as bright as her hair as she turned, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Hello?” she said, though it came out an awful lot like a question, and an awful less like a word through a mouthful of food.

              He was about her age, though a few years older. Bundled up against the Southern cold, soft brown hair peeking beneath a beanie. His cheeks were flushed pink. His eyes round and penetrating. But his smile was infectious, dimples creasing his jaw.

              He laughed. “My bad, I didn't realize your mouth was full.” He waited patiently for Sansa to swallow her food, wiping her mouth clean. She probed between her teeth in case there was food stuck there.

              Sansa studied him all the while. This was the sort of boy that – once upon a time – would have made her heart flutter in imagining what her future would be like with him. Almost like Loras had when she first saw him, though Loras was far far prettier than even many boys and girls Sansa knew (and Loras never once looked at Sansa the way Sansa looked at him).

              “Yes?” she asked, finally. Sansa didn't ignore the way he had been studying her, too. Roving eyes. _Assessing_ her. Like her uncle had the night before.

              But this was different. Right? A boy her age looking at her, versus her uncle who was at least twice that with greying hair and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

              And a smile that said _he knew things_.

              Harry said something but she missed it. “Sorry? I didn't catch that.”

              He dismissed her zoning out with a wave. “It's fine. I'd be lost in that sauce too. A gyro, right?” Sansa nodded. “Mind me asking where you got it? It looks so good.”

              Sansa paused for only a moment as she wondered if this was _okay_ . She was _promised_ to Willas, after all, though she didn't wear a ring. (“You're not eighteen yet, I don't know if you can legally wear an engagement ring?” Not to mention there'd be the questions of _who_ was the lucky person in her life. And then complaints that “You’re too young to get married!” Sansa bit her tongue to stop her voice from shouting: “I’m too young for my parents to die and for all my family to leave me and to be left alone with _nothing_.” She didn’t say that, of course. A lady doesn’t complain).

              “It’s this place a few blocks down that way,” she said, finally. He was just a boy asking for directions. This was completely okay.

              He followed the direction of her finger with his eyes. “Thanks.” He smiled again, so wide and full of teeth that his dimples made heavy shadows on his jaw. “I'm Harry, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

              “Nice to meet you, too.” His smile deflated a fraction when Sansa didn't introduce herself. She was right – he wanted _more_ than a gyro. With a nod, he tucked hands in his pockets and left.

              Only a few steps before turning on his heel. “Hey, if you ever want someone to walk around the city with, well, here’s my number.” He pulled a napkin from the stack beside her and fished for a pen in his back pocket. Sansa watched as he wrote each of his ten digits down. “Here,” Harry said with a sweet smile.

              “Thanks,” she said, not really knowing what else to say. People who knew her were worried about some _curse_ that hung about the Starks. How else would the old family have completely shattered? Perhaps it was for the best if Harry didn’t know who she was.

              Sansa waved him goodbye. He glanced back over the throng of people as he went, smiling, not at all clandestine about his intentions.

              The piece of paper felt heavy between her fingers. But it was a welcome weight.

              She hadn't the choice in her parents' death. Or the choice in what kind of person her aunt was. The choice in leaving all her siblings and forced into a new family. The choice in marrying Willas (she had to agree to it, and willingly say _I do_ ). But where else could she have gone? Lysa didn't want her (when she had still been alive). Edmure wasn't capable of taking care of anyone, including himself. Her uncle Benjen was lost in the world somewhere. Her half-brother Jon was off in the military, mourning the fact that he couldn't be there to save Robb. Sansa didn't know _where else to go_ , who else would have her. So she said _yes_ to Margaery’s plan and thought of all the lemoncakes she would eat, all the flowers she would beholden to pluck and smell. And didn't think of how little choice she truly had in it all.

              There were worse endings to her life, she reasoned.

              Sansa tucked the piece of paper in her pocket. Well, she had two weeks to wile away here. And going out and seeing the city and actually _doing things_ rather than staying cooped up in the apartments… It sounded a lot nicer. It sounded _freeing._ And it would be good to have a _friend_ in King’s Landing other than the housekeeper.

              Not to mention being with Harry meant less time being around her uncle.

              She continued eating her food, watching people walk by, watching the palm fronds sway lazily in breeze.

              In one fell swoop, the filling of her gyro spilled out of the pita. Sansa saved her clothes from the undue mess, but her hands and chin weren’t so lucky. The white tzatziki sauce coated her fingers. Without a thought, she licked her thumb and forefinger clean – it would be a shame to waste something so delicious. Besides, no one knew her or rightfully cared what she was doing.

              Her gaze wandered over to the children playing tag. To the small clusters of colored flowers among the green and grey. To the men and women in suits returning from their lunch break to another four or five or six hours of desk-job hell. And in that throng of passersby: a familiar head of black and grey curls. A familiar _hungry_ gaze too dark to make out the color of his irises.

              Suddenly, Sansa felt all the blood go to her face.

              Her uncle Petyr was stopped in the center of a walkway. How long he was there, she couldn’t say.

              But she could _guess_ – from the way his hand clutched the green plastic container of his food, the way she could make out a twitch in his cheek despite how far he was.

              He’d watched her eat her gyro, watched the disaster splay out all over her skin. Watched as she licked white cream from her fingers, carefully lapping over to clean it all.

              And he’d watched her talk with Harry.

              And now he was...what, jealous? Of a boy half his age?

              And now Sansa was...what, confused? Of the way her uncle seemed to mark her as something more than a niece? Of the way she just _knew_ he pictured something else than a gyro’s fillings coating her fingers?

              The way she could feel his burning gaze gliding all over her body – yes, he was thinking things far, far worse than that.

              Long, long, _long_ seconds ticked by. Sansa tried to count her heartbeats, but they were a frantic thing. Finally, her uncle continued his steps, faster than he had to have been walking before. He bumped shoulders with an older woman, not bothering to apologize in his haste to get the fuck out. Not once looking back at Sansa.

              Suddenly, she wasn’t hungry any more.


	3. petyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Much, much love to all of you for reading this trash ;*  
> I love every single one of you, as much as I love writing our trash son.]

              Petyr stared at the piles of folders and papers before him, plastered in post-its, lit by the harsh white light if his computer monitor. Sunset (he realized) had long set over King's Landing. There was so much work he had to get done, _too_ much work. The thickest packet of papers dealing with that _banal_ retrial. A new case of malpractice (of which the doctor _clearly_ didn’t know what she was doing despite the ten people now lying in the earth). A folder of possible new hires and interns for when shit hits the fan in a few months. The norm.

              Only, Petyr Baelish had done absolutely none of it.

              He smashed the palms of his hands against his eyes. Lights swirled on the darkness. Waves of light dancing in the black, indeterminate shapes morphing into uncertain spirals. All of them spinning into the soft curve of her cheek. The way her hair caught in the light breeze, the afternoon light, falling in lazy curls over her shoulders. The perfect shape of her lips as she licked her fingers clean.

              Petyr stared at the monitor until his eyes hurt. _Gods_ , with eyes closed it was worse.

              What exactly _was_ Petyr Baelish when all he could imagine was the sight of his niece? Or (if he was being honest), all he could imagine was the sight of his niece naked, beneath him, panting for more and crying out his name as she came? The _technical_ term was deranged. Another popular one was a mess. But a _mess_ was putting it – this thing that tightened his chest, that occupied his every thought – very, very lightly.

               _What the fuck is wrong with me_.

              Petyr thought he had part of it under control. There were meetings in the morning that he forced himself to listen to. Finance of the firm and an overview of the major cases they were dealing with. Droning voices and idle chit-chat of _How was your weekend_ and _How was the gala_ and all that shit. It was cause for celebration that he _only_ thought of fucking his niece four times during that hour and a half.

              He threw himself into his work after that. Petyr thought whatever ache in his chest (and his cock) had started to die down. Even when Myranda swung past his office, the cut of her dress borderline scandalous (although it might just have been the size of her chest swallowing the fabric). “A pity we couldn't finish what we started last night…” she said with a devilish smile. She let her hand twirl circles over the top of his mountain of files. Petyr could guess that she had half a mind to _finish it_ right now. Hells, she would probably get off on the imagine alone of being fucked in the office at work.

              Would Sansa like that, too? The high of fear that someone (even the _lordly_ Tywin himself) could walk in just as she was in the throes of her orgasm? Worse was the thought that Petyr would look that smug bastard in the eye as he fucked her senseless.

              Fuck. That was number five.

              “I apologize for leaving you alone and wanting,” he said calmly (a blessing). “But you know how Tywin is.”

              “Of course.” Myranda walked around his desk, placing her hand atop the arm of his chair. Petyr could see she would much rather place it somewhere else. He could also confirm that she wasn't wearing a bra. Wyllym from accounting probably noticed, too. A surprise he wasn’t waiting for Myranda just outside Petyr’s office. “We _could_ go up to the twenty-fourth floor. And I could help you get rid of this ache…” She motioned with her chin the growing hardness caused by Petyr’s unsightly fantasy of taking his niece right here. Oh, if Myranda knew...

              The twenty-fourth floor. An empty floor notorious for quickies. The building hadn't managed to fill it for a year now, ever since the contractors who worked on the new midrise across the street moved out. Petyr, ashamed as he was to admit it, went there to _deal_ with his late wife when she was being petulant. Lysa had illusions of grandeur from the trash movies she would watch, about how _exciting_ it was to tease each other at work without being caught (Lysa, to no one’s surprise, was _terrible_ at not being caught. Everyone just pretended that they didn’t see, wished they could bleach their minds). The floors were thick enough to mask her moans.

              “I would love nothing else, my love,” Petyr finally said, thinking of the piles of evidence he needed to get through, the financial summary for the meeting. _Anything_ to keep his cock from hardening further, from giving Myranda the wrong impression that he wanted her. “Perhaps later this week? Or after I've sorted through the Lannister case.”

              If he was honest, he was a little terrified of the look in the woman's eyes. A dark glinting. Imagining all of the sorts of equally wicked acts with Petyr, just as Petyr imagined of his niece (did that count as number six?). Maybe it was the mirrored hunger that worried him about this woman. Petyr _knew_ exactly what she wanted, and the lengths she would go.

              Myranda left, not before trailing her fingers down his thigh. In a promise of _later_.

              Petyr had himself under control, even with that bothersome act. He was rather proud of how control he had been the rest of the morning. Until what he'd seen this afternoon.

              On his way back from grabbing lunch, his head and heart and cock momentarily freed from the clutches of his niece. Walking through the streets gave him the mercy of turning his mind off. Of not having to think – about the case, about how to deal with Myranda’s affections, or how Sansa's hand would have felt around his cock when he jerked off last night.

              Guildhall Plaza was thronging with people getting to and from work. A couple of kids ran past him straight into a bed of flowers. Tourists took photos of the Sept, of the Red Keep, of whatever dumb things caught their interest. Petyr let his feet carry him along the path, his mind and gaze wandering without focusing.

              And there she was.

              Sitting alone, staring at the people getting to and from work, the kids running into the flowers, the tourists photographing everything. Eating, watching.

              Petyr didn’t realized he had stopped moving until he saw the boy walk up to her. Petyr’s hand gripped his salad takeout, imagining it was the boy’s throat. The boy pestered Sansa, smiling, laughing, urging her to like him back (at least enough to _fuck him_ , Petyr thought. Why else would a boy like that (and how old was he anyways? Older than Sansa, but much younger than Petyr) talk to someone as beautiful and unaware as Sansa?) Sansa had the courtesy to laugh at whatever he said, to smile and take his number. To watch as he left to gods-knew-where and gods-didn’t-give-a-fuck.

               _Rip it up_ , Petyr chanted as Sansa stared at the slip of paper. She was thinking the same thing. She was leaving in two weeks, anyways, what was the point of entertaining a _boy_ who wanted only to get in her pants?

              Only she tucked his number into her pocket and kept eating.

              Drugs. Assault. Murder. There were any number of ways Petyr could frame the boy and get him the fuck out of the way. Petyr had plenty of favors he could cash in, too.

               _What is the boy guilty of_ , the judge would say. Aside from the planted drugs or accused murder... Just for talking to Sansa? No, for giving her his fucking number. His winning smiles. Petyr watched him weave through the crowd, keeping an eye on Sansa, while Petyr wondered if the boy would still be smiling when he beat the shit out of him.

              But Sansa was probably interested in him. That was _normal_ , being interested in people one's age. For a girl as beautiful as her to find someone as (moderately) beautiful and young attractive. Sansa wasn’t the first girl the boy courted, nor would she be the last. He tried to ignore the pesky thought, but it was _Petyr_ whose affections were not where they should be. _He_ was twice her age, at least. He had already imagined taking Sansa six times that day, and it was barely past noon.

              Yet his mind caught on the sight of Sansa.

              Whose burrito (or whatever the fuck she was eating) collapsed in her hands. Leaving her with a mess of cream coating her lips, her chin, her fingers.

              Petyr’s cock twitched at the sight.

              Sansa freed the napkins from beneath her phone and wiped the mess away. She looked around, embarrassment coating her cheeks a beautiful red, and caught the sight of her dear, kind, compassionate uncle. Staring at her with the single thought that it was his own come splattered on her face.

              Seven.

              Would she use her hands first, or her mouth? A wicked thought that Sansa had never touched a man’s cock before, that she never had someone touch her in ways that made her see gods she never knew existed. That – the next time she sucked him off – Sansa would learn to swallow all of his seed, staring up at him through batting lashes and ask _Did I do a good job?_

              Eight nine ten.

              So Petyr wandered up to the twenty-fourth floor bathroom, leaving his salad in his office for something more pressing. Checked he was alone before turning the VPN on his phone on. It didn’t take much effort to find someone palpable and with the same body shape. Titled _red head totally pounded by her uncle_ (gods the fact that porn had evolved so much since he was a crazed teenager is astounding). Her boobs were smaller than what he imagined Sansa’s to be, and the man hadn’t even bothered to play with them as he fucked her (how novice). But it did the job well enough to rid himself of his hard-on. His groans echoed off the tiles when he came.

               _A fucking helpless mess_ didn’t even begin to describe what Petyr was.

              His eyes shot open. Burned at the sight of the documents on the screen that he was supposed to have gone through already.

              Deep breaths.

              He knew this case when it first came to light four years ago. And the _scandal_ of Lannister & Baratheon taking it despite the obvious conflict of interests… Well, Cersei was certainly protective of the things she loved.

              Or the truth: it was easier to manipulate facts and evidence when the case was under your own scrutiny. A surprise when the judge ruled in Cersei’s favor when it first went to trial (but only because Petyr had the wits to bribe him. And the wits that had the case gone south, Petyr would be out of job and reputation faster than he just came in the twenty-fourth floor bathroom).

              At this moment, Petyr couldn't relate a one single detail about the case. But about the lovely girl named Sansa Stark – he could write an entire dissertation on how she was the prettiest creature in all of Westeros. On how he wanted to prove hypothesis after hypothesis on what she sounded like under him, where her hands would find purchase as she rode his cock. Whether she would beg for more with her cries or with the way her cunt would be wet and wanting.

               _Gods._

              Petyr downed tea that had gone cold an hour ago. The sharp taste of mint on his tongue was hardly enough to clean the filth in his mind.

              The office wasn't empty – Petyr wasn't sure if the office ever was truly empty. Someone somewhere furiously working to get work finished before dawn. Someone somewhere furiously trying to sway their manager with a quickie, twenty-fourth floor or no.

              “Proposal for retrial of the murder of…” Petyr began to read., rubbing the bridge of his nose. Maybe if he drowned himself in work, he wouldn't be consumed with the itch to fuck his niece when he got back home.

              After all, he was a better man than that.

* * *

              At least, he _thought_ he was a better man than that.

              Petyr got back to his apartments twenty minutes ago, and it was just past midnight now. He hadn't bothered with dinner, nor bothered to check if Kella had done her usual housekeeping. She always did, nearly as punctual as Petyr. How was she doing, he wondered? He needed to take her out for coffee one of these days, catch up with her life and her children and whether or not she really was going to take that vacation back to the Vale. _To check up on your old home_ , she reasoned. Petyr mustered a laugh at the unneeded kindness. Home? There wasn't much of a home in the Vale, not since he left years ago. He used to think he lived in a castle when he was a boy. Now, it was hardly a house. Small? Yes. A little drafty? Yes. Something that Petyr ever wanted to see again? Hells no.

               _Maybe this weekend,_ Petyr thought, checking his internal calendar. He had a business trip to Dorne, which he figured he could sneak out of early. But the weekend felt so far away, too far away. ( _What do you plan to learn_ , his mind chided. _How Sansa likes to be wooed? Which position she prefers in bed?_ ) A simple check in with Kella. And learn whatever information – even the smallest detail of something – that she's eked out of Sansa.

              He loosened his tie on the walk home, choosing streets instead of the metro. Petyr trusted the streets more than the shit he’d seen this late on the trains. It was late, and a Monday, but the city never truly slept. People crowded out of the doors of the bars and clubs. A contrasting sight and sound to the old-world buildings they had taken over. The Sept loomed above it all, lights highlighting the seven spires. College kids from the university swaggering between the late-night tourists trying and failing to navigate the winding streets of King’s Landing. Petyr watched it all. He thought the brisk breezes off Blackwater Bay would clear away all his _uncouth_ thoughts.

              And it _had worked._ Until now.

              Now…

              Now he found himself outside of his niece’s bedroom. Staring through the crack in the door. It took those first ten minutes to muster up the courage (or cowardice? if he truly had the courage, Petyr would have rushed in and taken Sansa then and there) to carefully, slowly pry the door open an inch. Then another. He was smart enough to keep the hall light off as he did it.

              Light from the window cast slitted shadows over her, highlighting the curve of her beneath the covers.

               _What am I doing._

              Petyr pried open the door one more inch, so he could see all of Sansa in that small crack of violation.

               _Stop._

              He could feel the weight of his longing pulling at his heart. Or at least at his cock. Urging him to just go in there, touch her, feel her, taste her.

              Sansa rustled beneath her sheets. Petyr held his breath. His hand was still on the doorknob. He could still close it and leave and pretend like this lapse of utter _madness_ hadn't taken over all his rationality. Petyr was a rational man, a calculating man, and the tug in his chest was the furthest thing from smart.

              She turned, adjusted her head on the pillow. A small _purr_ of comfort slipped from her mouth.

              But still asleep.

              Petyr let loose his breath, slowly.

               _Close the door and go the fuck to bed, you fucking fool._

              A line of light caught her hair, her cheek. Sansa looked too sweet, too pure. The covers had slid just low enough to reveal her collarbone, the wide expanse of her skin there. The column of her throat. Petyr counted the steady rhythm of her breathing.

              He could imagine – with the way she slept so comfortably, the way his eyes caught on her exposed flesh above the covers – that Sansa was lying, waiting, naked.

               _As if waiting for me._

              Petyr lowered the zip of his pants tooth by tooth. He couldn't hear the shouting of his thoughts over the pounding of his heart. Only the whisper of a _Stop_ amongst the thrum of blood, drowned out, before he was rubbing the length of his cock above his briefs. _Fuck_ , even after he had come this afternoon, his body craved more.

              His niece did things to him. Did she know that? It was hard to say – but damn if the thought that she was innocent of her allure was as intoxicating as the thought that she led him on on purpose. Did she know that Petyr hadn't bothered with fucking someone since his wife? And that was mostly to shut Lysa up. Myranda was a curiosity, if anything. A means to an end.

              Petyr hadn't been this hard, this _aching_ for someone, in years.

              In her sleep, Sansa licked her lips.

              His cock twitched in his hand. Petyr imagined them wrapped around his cock as he came inside her mouth. Tasting what she did to him. Drinking in every last drop. The sight from this afternoon with that sauce all over her mouth. As if she tried to take him all, swallow every last drop, but there was too much, he was too much. Sansa wiping come from her lips with fingers. Sansa licking every last bit of it from her hands, hoping to please her uncle. Fuck if he didn't have that image in his head all day.

              One final call for reason: _Stop_.

              Petyr pulled himself out of his trousers, too caught up in the fantasy in his head.

              He heard the echoes of the woman from the porn he watched, dragged his gaze over her body. It looked enough how he imagined Sansa's – lithe and beautiful, nipples perked and body rolling against the cock for more. The cries as the man thrust against her clit. The haggard breathing as she neared her climax.

              Then the man pulled out, flipped the girl over. Spanked her once, twice, before sliding his cock back inside her. Rough thrusts, slamming his hips into the girl’s ass. The girl cried into the sheets as she came. Moaned even as the man continued to fuck her long after her orgasm, using her however he wanted.

              Petyr bit his bottom lip, stifled a groan. Fuck, he was close. He grasped the door frame with his free hand, so tightly it began to creak beneath his grip. So close, so close.

              There had been the scent of lemons on Sansa when he met her. Petyr imagined burying his head in the crook of her neck, licking his way down the valley of her breasts, as he fucked her cunt with abandon. Relishing in the taste of her skin tinged with citrus. Relishing in her sighs, her moans, her pleas for _faster_ and _oh gods yes there right there Petyr please_ . As a _dutiful_ uncle, he would give his niece whatever she wanted.

              And if Sansa begged for his cock – in her hands or her mouth or her pretty little cunt – then how could Petyr say no?

              Petyr dug his teeth into his lip as he came, so tightly he thought he tasted metal. Trying against every instinct not to groan like the animal he had devolved into at the image of fucking his niece. The door frame creaked beneath his grip.

              Fuck.

              “...hello... ?”

              Fuck.

              Petyr jumped out of her line of sight. His hand over his mouth to stifle his breathing.

              Did she _see_?

              Fuck.

              He'd been so damn caught up in his fantasy he hadn't noticed if – or _when –_ she woke up. If she saw the silhouette of him jerking off. If she saw, or smelt, his release. If she _knew_ it was her that made Petyr as wanton as a common street whore.

              But if the gods were kind and Sansa _didn't_ see anything, Petyr would brush it away as a dream. Of course she was imagining things. Of course her uncle didn't want to fuck her until her legs were numb, until she couldn't remember any of the names of the gods – old or new – except for the man inside her.

              Petyr couldn't help but laugh. At himself, mostly. At the mess of his come in his hand, still warm from the thoughts of fucking his niece. At the mess of a person he was now.

              Seconds passed. In each of them, Petyr imagined a different scenario. In one, Sansa was calling the cops to take Petyr away (rightfully so). In another, Sansa was packing her things, out the door, hailing a cab for her drunk of an uncle instead of her lecherous one (aka himself).

              In another, Sansa padded into the hall, wide-eyed and curious. Wiping her finger along the mess in his hand, wondering what it was. Tasting it. Wondering if he could show her all of the pretty little pictures he used to get himself off.

              Petyr couldn't deny which scenario he preferred.

              But the one that happened was lackluster. No frantic calling, no rushed packing, no curiosity. Sansa had fallen back asleep.

               _It's for the better_.

              Petyr silently closed the door to his own bedroom. Leaning his head against it and breathed. Listened to the heavy drum of his heart fade away. Long minutes passed before Petyr washed away the _evidence_ of his lechery.

              One whisper of logic reasoned that if he just had the smallest _taste_ , maybe he could forget her.

              As if that would fucking work. Petyr was drunk just on the _sight_ of Sansa. He knew, deep down, that he wouldn't be able to stop with just a small taste, a brief touch.

              Petyr wanted it all – _all_ of Sansa.

              Of _course_ he couldn't touch his niece. She was a fucking child. ( _That didn't stop you from imaging all the ways you could take her cunt_ , his mind whispered). Of _course_ he couldn't touch his niece, she didn't _want_ him like he ached for her. There was that boy this afternoon. Someone younger, someone her age, would be best ( _That didn't stop you from thinking how to incriminate him for life. Or how to cleanly wipe him off the face of Westeros_ ).

              Of course he couldn't do _anything_. Because Petyr didn't know how far into madness he would go. How far he would let the allure of Sansa Stark drag him down until he wasn't a person anymore.

              Petyr dropped his face in his hands. Stared at the darkness behind his eyelids.

               _Gods_ , this was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.


	4. sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I hope all of you stay on board the Sin Train as I continue to take us downwards into the darkest recesses from whence we can never return.
> 
> Enjoy~]

 

              “...hello…?”

              There was a rustle, a creak. Though all of it might have been the sounds of the building, or of King’s Landing seeping up through the window. If she listened close enough, Sansa could hear the revving of cars as they ripped apart the silence lingering over empty streets. The faint lapping of waves off in the distance beyond the lit monolith that was the Red Keep. And fainter than all of that: people. Murmurs of conversations, shouts to party, whispers of acts spoken in the dark alleys.

_ It was just a dream _ , her mind urged. A figment of the shadows of her room and her mind blurring into the unnatural form of her uncle. Nothing more than a silhouette, an assumption of who it truly was. Doing…. _ uncouth _ things in the crack of her bedroom door.

              Of course it was a dream. He might be the man who  _ tore  _ what remained of her family apart by doting on the horrible lady that was her aunt. And he might (or  _ was _ ) the man who didn't even truly love his own wife whilst she was dead or alive. 

              But he wasn't the sort of man stoop to such depravity as to  _ pleasure himself _ to the sight of her sleeping. 

              Was he? 

              Only, when Sansa blinked, she swore the shadowy image in her mind flittered to the face of her betrothed. Kind, warm Willas – older than her, yes, but far younger than the man who  _ owned _ her for the next two weeks. Sansa knew Willas was kind, gentle. A bit boring, yes, much preferring the company of his books than people, even Sansa. But there were worse men to chain herself to. The tendrils of darkness lining his face stared at her, through her, like she was nothing to him.

              Again the shadow shifted. This time, the young, sharp edges of the boy she met that afternoon. Harry. Sun glinting off his hair, the dimples of his chin deep as he smiled at her with his mouth. Only the dimples were gone, the golden hue of his eyes nothing more than a whisper in the darkness that rivaled the deepest depths of the Blackwater. Harry’s lips crawling over her chin, her neck, never satisfied with taking only the smile from her. Waves of cold chilling her skin as he did what he wanted.

              Again it changed. This time, the last time, the shadows returned to reality. Her uncle Petyr. The darkness of his stare not imagined: Sansa had seen it,  _ felt  _ the weight behind it the moment the elevator doors slid apart. As if something in him snapped. Though now with slits of moonlight falling over her bed, Sansa didn’t have to imagine what he looked like with that primal  _ hunger _ carving eyes black. She  _ saw _ it despite the shadows, the darkness that hid the truth behind what he was doing. Perhaps – and she knew it was true – that it was all  _ because of _ the shadows that he did it.

              She blinked again. 

              A door quietly slammed down the hall. Petyr just got home. The red neon light of her clock said it was past midnight – she wondered (prayed?) that this was normal for her uncle. If she didn't need to get out of the apartments because he was hardly there. Kella's gentle words assured her that he was a workaholic. 

              Amongst other things. 

              Amongst being someone who cared so little for his  _ dearly departed _ that scant months after their dear Lysa's passing, Petyr already had his hands all over another woman. His mouth, too. And his-

              Sansa slammed the pillow over her head. 

              She was to be  _ married  _ in a few weeks, good gods. She was going to have a good husband who loved her – not nearly as much as his sister loved having another female friend, true. A wonderful husband, a warm family full of people who  _ wanted  _ Sansa. People who weren't going to ship her off to some other family when they tired of looking at her, feeding her. 

              And maybe Willas could help Sansa find the rest of her siblings. Assuming all but Robb were still alive. 

              There were worse people to attach herself to. The marriage might not have all been her idea or her deepest wish (she couldn't deny the numerous thoughts wishing her own betrothed was as handsome as his younger brother). Margaery was more than happy to arrange it for her, to make sure Sansa was a Tyrell as soon as was legally possible. Sansa  _ loved  _ them, yes. 

              But she was loath to replace her wolf's heritage so quick. 

              Something she would never say to Willas or Margaery or their sharp grandmother. Sansa only ever smiled and nodded and went along with what they wished of her. 

              The sliver of hallway between the door and the frame was black as pitch. Gods knew what sorts of monsters lurked just outside the room with sharp teeth and wild eyes. 

              Or the one that lurked at the other end of the hall.

              She had only forgotten to shut her door.

              Of course.

* * *

              Sansa didn’t get much sleep.

              Her mind was a  _ terrible  _ thing. A  _ vile  _ thing. 

              It finally settled enough on the kind lie (she realized sometime around two-thirty that yes, it  _ was _ her uncle. Her imagination wasn’t  _ that  _ impure to come up with the scenario on its own. That outside her room wasn't a flutter of the shadows or the sounds of the city below: her uncle (her guardian, her replacement father) touched himself at the mere sight of her sleeping, unknowing. She shuddered). But her mind had weaved a dream worse than the truth of what she had woken up to. 

              The elevator doors had slid open without their usual _ ding.  _ Sansa looked down at her hands, her body, to find that she didn't have one. A ghost, an invisible spectator. Looked up to see where her body had materialised. 

              Into the roving hands of her uncle. 

              The woman from that first night – with her low-cut dress, with her lips locked onto the man's neck and her hands trailing slowly around to the front of his waist – wasn't the buxom woman with chestnut curls or a wicked glint in her eye. 

              It was Sansa. 

              Sansa watched in horror as she saw her own body arch into her uncle’s ministrations along her back. The way he let his fingers dip  _ just slightly _ between the barrier of skin and fabric. How they ventured a fraction lower with each passing. How Sansa (the ghost of her, not the  _ wanton thing _ in her body) mewled into Petyr’s neck as his fingers finally found the courage to probe deeper. Sansa’s body rocked in tune with his movements.

_ Stop _ , she tried to scream at herself. 

_ Stop _ , she tried to pry them apart (“them” because Sansa couldn't believe it was truly her doing such  _ lewd  _ things. That it was truly her  _ moaning  _ at such roaming touches).

              That it was her that found courage, too, to reach for his need.

              She snapped awake. 

              Sansa slapped the side of her head, buried her face under the pillow, did  _ anything  _ with the sliver of hope that she could silence her brain. 

              It didn't work. Not to quiet the frantic hammering in her chest when she awoke. Or the damning wetness between her legs. 

_ I need to get out of here.  _

              Out of the apartments for the day. Because the realization of what her uncle had done and the sickening understanding that some deep, vile part of herself  _ liked it  _ enough to conjure up that nightmare – Sansa wouldn’t be able to think of nothing else if she stayed cooped up here. 

              Out of King’s Landing. Which would be harder on her own. And without the money inherited to her once she became legally and adult. 

              Out of her life. Well, Sansa had nothing, no one. For the next two weeks,  _ this  _ was her life. 

              Great. 

              Sansa padded outside her room. It was quiet and dark, the sun not quite awake either. A sort of muted greyness blanketed the walls and floor that made the world feel just a bit  _ off _ , just a bit  _ unreal _ . Gods if that wasn't how Sansa felt right now. 

              At the one end of the hall was more darkness. Whether the door was closed or open, she couldn't tell. She didn't dare investigate. 

              To the kitchen, then. Her stomach grumbled at the mere thought of food – and then felt queasy at the mere remembrance of what happened the last time she ate food. At how her uncle stared at her with his own sort of hunger removed from any notion of food.

              No matter what she did, her  _ kind  _ uncle was always there. 

              But hunger trumped embarrassment (was that the reason for her flushed cheeks and clammy hands?). Sansa grabbed the refrigerator handle, leaving it there as she leaned her head against the frame and stared out the wall-to-wall window. King’s Landing wasn’t awake, either. Bright lights tearing through the not-quite-morning. Birds chirped from atop parapets.

              At least the view was spectacular. She couldn't help but feel just a tiny bit like a princess trapped in a tall tower. Just a tiny bit, trapped with the dragon that kept her imprisoned. Only, in children’s stories the dragon was  _ just _ a monster.

_ Two weeks,  _ she reminded herself. She could get through this. 

              Sansa scanned the shelves of the fridge, forgetting how well-stocked and how healthy all of her choices were. Not  _ a lot _ necessarily – if Petyr got home around midnight every night, what's the point in letting all this food spoil? – but still more than a newly-made bachelor should have. Did Petyr even know how to cook? Or was that what Kella was for, to help out with household this and that, and cook and clean. All for the price of dealing with such a terrible man. 

              Well, maybe not  _ terrible  _ to most. Sansa couldn't say who her uncle was outside of the three encounters with him. But he was three for three on  _ improper _ . 

              Especially – and this was a big one – because Sansa was still a child in the eyes of the law. 

              An  _ engaged  _ child, true. But she  _ did  _ consent to the engagement ( _ because no one else would have me _ ). And she had only had a small swarm of butterflies in her tummy since she said _ Yes _ . But her planned marriage to Willas was different than whatever this was going on between her and Petyr.  _ This  _ being a one-sided infatuation.  _ This  _ being nothing at all. 

              Wasn't it? 

              Sansa came back from her thoughts, not realizing she had pulled out all the fixings for an omelette. She had been in the process of finding a bowl and pan, which she vaguely remembered while helping Kella yesterday. 

              It helped, cooking. Letting her mind and body focus on the individual actions: cracking the egg, adding pepper and spinach and mushrooms, buttering the pan and sliding the mixture in. Watching little bubbles form on the edges.

              Harsh lights flicked on. 

              “What are you doing, making food in the dark?”

              Sansa spun around, spatula in hand and likely a frenzied look of terror akin to a bear caught rummaging through tents. She remembered the sight of one, one summer her and her family went camping in Wolfswood National Park. One of her brothers (none of them confessed) hadn't locked the tent properly. That bear sauntered with all of their food and one of their sleeping bags.

              But Sansa felt far from a powerful bear in this moment. More like a deer caught frozen in the headlights of a speeding car. 

              Especially with the far-from-inconspicuous way Petyr let his eyes travel across her body.

              Each time he did this – the first when she had barely gotten here, and this now definitely not the last. Each time felt like he just saw her for the first time, and couldn't help but marvel at how beautiful she was. The boy from yesterday, Harry, gave her a similar look, though less refined. More like he couldn't wait to get into her pants and knew that he could (Sansa had Margaery stave off the boys back in Highgarden, even before she proposed the marriage). And Willas only ever look at her like her brothers might have. Not at all like a man should beam at the sight of his future wife. 

              But this look was...different. Darkness in Petyr’s eyes, unblinking. Not wanting to miss a single millisecond of absorbing her – from the bedhead flyaways, down her chin, her neck, and across the expanse of her clothed chest. So much different from any sort of look Sansa got. Hungry.

              Too bad he was her  _ uncle. _

              Thank the gods for the island separating them. Sansa didn't want to feel the heavy heat of his eyes roaming over her legs bare save for sleeping shorts. Nor did she want Petyr to see how her legs shook beneath his gaze.

              She could see the effort in tearing his eyes away towards his watch. How long had it been? Seconds? Minutes? An eternity. “Rather early for breakfast, isn't it?”

              Was it early? She hadn't bothered to check the clock since the second time she woke from a restless sleep. But she  _ knew _ . How early it was. That her uncle had still been around. 

              A whisper told her she was tempting fate. Another said she was enjoying that thrill. 

              “I don’t think it’s ever too early. Especially after a late-night workout.”

              The corner of Petyr's mouth twitched. But he didn't say or do anything but cock his head to the side in a motion of  _ Whatever do you mean? _

              Perhaps she had been a little  _ too _ obvious.

              Sansa quickly added, “Would you like some?”

              That little twitch flared again, more obvious this time. Petyr went so far as to traverse around the island, standing next to her. His briefcase separated them – as much of a measure of propriety for her as it was for him. “As good as it smells – is that mushrooms? – unfortunately I'm already running late.”

              Sansa reached for his free wrist to check the time. “It's only...six-fifteen?”

              Petyr didn't reply, not in the next second or the one after. Five. Ten. Sansa felt the roll of his veins beneath her fingers; the quick rhythm of blood in tune with the heavy heart between her own ribs. The warmth that traveled where their skin touched skin. Hardly a point of contact – wrist and fingers – but Sansa couldn't bring it in her to let go. 

              Petyr didn't move, either. 

              Both of them were staring at the omelette, at the sweat condensing on the mushroom and the wilting spinach. The bubbles lining the edge were side-by-side. Neither would admit (and maybe this was only Sansa projecting her own ridiculous thoughts) that if she looked up, she wasn’t sure what she would do. Wasn’t sure if her damned heart would combust.

              Slowly, as if reluctant to do so, Petyr softly removed his arm from her grip.

              There was that little spark of thrill again. Or of  _ madness _ . Tempting the beast before her. 

              Sansa liked it. She never had this sort of thrill, this sort of  _ power _ , when it came to Willas. Or Harry, though there wasn’t much there for comparison. But this  _ thing _ that sent her blood pounding...it was electrifying.

              Sansa hated that she liked it.

              “You'd best go, then,” she finally said, taking a small step to the side and finding her omelette infinitely more interesting than her uncle. It sizzled when she flipped it – only slightly burnt. Found it infinitely more interesting than the way her blood was a flurry in her ears.  _ From touching his wrist, gods. _

              Petyr – he was close enough (or not close enough?) that Sansa could smell the hint of mint on his breaths – let loose a long exhale. Like he'd been holding it in the moment he flicked the light on. “Of course. Enjoy your breakfast.” 

              He left the trace of his warmth and mint as he left, calling the elevator. Sansa loosened her grip on the spatula, her fingers sore. 

              “Oh, and sweetling?” he called from the elevator. 

              Sansa turned to look at him.

              A bad decision. She saw (through the loose cascade of her hair) that Petyr was reluctant to keep his eyes from where they wanted to stay. Would he stay if she asked?

              Did she  _ want _ him to stay?

              The thought burst with his words: “Have Kella tale you shopping. Clothes, perhaps?”

_ Ding.  _ And he was gone. 

              It was then Sansa realized she wasn't wearing a bra. 

* * *

              “What about this one, dear?”

              Kella held out a simple wool cardigan with a lace pattern covering the back. Sansa tried her best to focus on it, on the ensemble that Kella was picking out for her. Cute and simple. But her mind was miles away. In the kitchen of her uncle's apartments, to be precise. 

              All she could do was analyze and overanalyze and over-overanalyze  _ where  _ her dear uncle's gaze had lingered this morning. Could he  _ see  _ that Sansa had nothing on beneath her sleep cami? Could he  _ see _ what his proximity, what that brief touch, affected her?  _ Of course you idiot. _ It didn’t take three brain cells to realize that he was a man who struggled with his own desire to  _ touch _ her. Sansa read enough cheesy romance novels (to the shock of godsly septas) to know what men wanted.

              Like how he wanted her when he touched himself in the dark hallway. Like how he must have imagined what her breasts looked like beneath her cami. Or imagined the rest of her, naked, beneath him. 

              Moaning for him like she had in her dream.

              Sansa shook her head. Clamped her hands around her face. She was burning. She wondered if her cheeks were as red as her hair. 

              “It's pretty,” Sansa managed to remember to reply, removing her hands to smile at the woman. Kella, thankfully, didn't say anything.  _ Forget about him. You. Are. Engaged.  _ “What do you think about this one?” Sansa grabbed one at random.

              Kella studied it as if Sansa meant to grab it.  _ Tsked  _ as she shook her head slowly. “No, I don't think so. You're too young to be showing that much stomach.”

              “You're right.” Sansa put it back without thinking too long on the thought of: Would Petyr like it?

_ Willas _ . Would Willas like it?

              Because that’s who she was engaged to, who her body and soul and heart belonged to. Not some random boy who gave her his number. And certainly not her uncle.

              “I think I should go try these on before you drown under them,” she said with a smile.

              She was always smiling.

              Kella led Sansa to the fitting room and offered to find matching boots. Sansa only gave her her thanks before locking herself in the closet. Following the motions of stripping and trying on the first of what felt like infinite outfits.

              They  _ were _ cute, that she had to concede. Kella was older, but she had good taste.

_ Bzzt. _

              Sansa fished through the pile of her clothes for her phone. Like she thought: Margaery. 

_ Hey girl!!! Hope you're doing good in KL. Miss you though :( Can it be the eighth already cause I can't wait to be your big sister!!!! lol :* _

              Sansa tapped out a simple reply boiling down to: Yeah I'm good, miss you too can't wait either! 

              Her thumbs paused above the keyboard, debating adding a second text.

              Margaery was always preaching about women having the intrinsic right to do whatever they want. Or: to do whomever they wanted. Sansa loved the frankness of her friend, how easy it was to talk with her (even if Sansa kept most of her thoughts and fears to herself). 

              What would Margaery say if Sansa said her uncle fancied her? 

              Or: that she  _ might _ have a little itty bitty part that might (maybe) have fancied him, too?

              “Between you and me,” Kella began from the other side of the changing room door. It sounded like she went to go rummaging through the racks for more wintery clothes. Did she know that Sansa was only here for a few weeks? “That boy has too much money with nothing to spend it on. No point in letting it wither. Might as well use it for him.”

_ That boy _ was Petyr. Which showed just a fraction of who he was to the woman, and who Kella was to him. It also made Sansa like Kella more than she already did. 

              But Sansa saw the glittering ring on her aunt's hand. 

              She didn't so much want to be here anymore.

              “I found this one, dear.” Kella slung several sets of clothes still on their hangers over the door with a resounding  _ clack _ . “Is there anything else you need?”

_ Bzzt. _

              A terrible thought overcame Sansa as she looked at the photos her friend sent her. An endless flurry of white. Could she convinced Petyr to buy her one with his  _ too much money _ . Maybe.

              But not as a one-way request. Petyr would  _ want  _ something from her. That’s how all the men in books were: a quid pro quo. This for that. A beautiful white wedding dress that turned Sansa into the most beautiful creature in the world. In exchange… Well, judging from what he took last night ( _ whilst I was asleep _ , she thought), Sansa couldn't ignore the flutter in her stomach. 

              No. 

              Petyr would only buy her a wedding dress if Sansa was to be  _ his _ bride. Which couldn't happen. Wouldn't happen.

_ Willas _ , she chanted to herself. A mantra to remind her vile brain to step straying so far into the shadows.

              She sent a quick  _ Busy but they're sooooo pretty omg  _ to Margaery before undoing the buttons of the first set of clothes. There were so many. Kella definitely missed having someone to dote over. Did she do the same with little Robert? Maybe. “No I'm good. Thank you so much, Kella.”

              “Of course. Let me know when you've finished.”

              “Actually…” Sansa interrupted the woman’s steps. She turned to the closed door, seeing the housekeeper through the slats. “Can I ask you something? Girl to girl?”

              “Anything.”

_ Be careful what you say _ , Sansa told herself. Kella was a kind woman who had too much love, yes. But she was still  _ Petyr's.  _ He paid her in money, and she paid him in labor – and in secrets. 

              And if Sansa didn't tell Kella, her only other option was Margaery. And  _ that  _ might not go so well given the small little fact that her future sister-in-law was busy planning her wedding. 

              “There's this...boy I ran into yesterday,” Sansa began. Petyr had been there, so no worries in that regard. “And he...offered to take me out on a date.” Not true, but from Harry’s hounding it wouldn’t be difficult to arrange that. “But. But I already like another boy.” Actually  _ engaged  _ to another boy. A man. “How should I, um, deal with him?”

              The silence was too much, the truth too embarrassing for Sansa, that she couldn't help but finish fumbling with the buttons of the blouse for want of something to do. She got all of the try-on clothes off and was rummaging through the hangers on the door when finally Kella answered. “How much do you like the other boy? The one you already like?”

_ A lot, I suppose. I’m going to marry him, after all. _

              Sansa couldn’t help but worry she wasn’t thinking about Willas. She bit her lip. “More than I like this new boy.”

              “And does he love you back?”

_ Does he?  _ Willas was kind, and gentle, and quiet. He much preferred the company of books than her, but that's because Sansa was still a child. But still. After Margaery made a sweeping announcement at dinner one night – all of the Tyrells toasted, loving Sansa as their own in the years she was forcibly tossed to them. After all those well wishes and endless cups, Willas only gave her a chaste kiss to the back of her hand and wished her good night. 

              Nothing at all like the grand declarations Sansa loved in novels and movies. 

              Perhaps that's only the way he showed his affection. Perhaps that's what Sansa wanted to believe as she twisted an invisible ring around her finger. 

              “Yes.”  _ He would not marry me if he didn't at least care. _

              “Well, Sansa,” the housekeeper began. A pause, as if she too didn't know how Sansa should deal with this. “There's no harm in testing the waters. You're too young to hitch yourself to one guy without seeing what else is out there. I sure as hells never found  _ the one _ .” She said it with as much sarcastic emphasis as possible. 

              “Yeah.” Because the fact that Sansa even  _ considered  _ going out with Harry was the smaller of the issues. (She didn’t dare dwell on the more menacing one). And now another issue of Sansa might having settled too early. Something she hadn't even bothered to think of as an issue until she came to King's Landing. Two days ago.

              “Does your uncle know?”

_ Why would that matter _ , was Sansa's first thought. 

              And then:  _ of course if mattered. _ Sansa saw plainly how Petyr stared at her with an intense fire not even Harry had come close to. How – even from the distance – she saw how tightly his fingers clenched. As if imagining it was the boy's throat. “Sort of.”

              “Then there shouldn't be an issue. You're  _ young _ . Go out and have fun before life swallows you. Just be safe.”

              “Thanks, Kella. I'll… I'll let you know when I finish.”

              “Okay, dear. I hope that helped?” Footsteps echoed out of the room until Sansa was left with her thoughts and the mountain of clothes. Her body went on auto-pilot, pulling on pants and sweaters and blouses, not at all registering what she was doing.

              She tried on only half off the clothes Kella brought her, suddenly not in the mood to buy anything.

              Sansa stared at herself in the mirror. 

              She was wearing only her undergarments and socks. Hair tied back in a loose braid, strands popping out from putting on and taking off a plethora of clothes. Hardly a  _ look,  _ that’s for sure.

              Worse was the flash of a smirk that popped in her mind. If Sansa stared closer enough at her reflection, she could see it, see  _ him _ standing just behind her. That wicked gleam in his eyes. The minute shaking of clenched fist as he fought against touching her (though he had no qualms touching  _ himself _ ). 

              She watched the phantom of him trail his eyes down her body. Watched as he stepped close, so close she imagined the taste of mint from his breath. Aching to touch her, taste her – but staving off that deep, dark hunger.

              There was something...what? She didn’t have word for it. Just  _ something  _ about the effect she had on him that made her delirious. Made her ache for that feeling again.

              She dressed quickly, not bothering to put the haphazard mess of clothes clothes away (she felt so guilty for that). But this  _ foolish _ , idiotic, flat-out-reckless thought would disappear if she didn't grab it now. 

              “Actually, Kella,” she called out weaving through the racks. The woman turned, hands stopping fishing for more clothes. A blatant confusion creasing between her brows.  _ What the fuck are you doing _ . Sansa spoke before her mind realized what the fuck she  _ was _ doing. 

              Something completely, irreparably, foolish. 

              Something completely new and exciting and wrong.

              “There  _ is _ something I'd like to get, if you don't mind?”

 


	5. petyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shout out to each and every one of y’all for loving this trash story!!!! I love reading your thoughts. And I love being the conductor on our journey into Sin Town :)
> 
> Now if you look out your windows on your left, you’ll see a man struggling with what he knows he shouldn’t want, yet can’t stop wanting it...]

 

              Petyr was a mess. (He had said that already, didn’t he? Yes, and now he was losing track of how many times he realized it. Likely getting close to a hundred by now). But with each passing day – and  _ gods _ was it really only Wednesday? – this sick, twisted part of him dragged him further and further down. 

_...especially after a late-night workout, _ Sansa had said. Had  _ alluded _ . Whilst staring at him directly. Whilst her nipples peaked beneath that thin shirt, practically  _ begging  _ to be played with. Petyr’s cock hardened just at the sight of Sansa standing her own ground. Granted, she deflected the question shortly after, but it did nothing to ease his desire for her.

              Oh, the things he wanted to do to her breasts.

              The corner of his mouth twitched. 

              “What are you smiling about?” 

              Petyr glanced up at Varys, eyebrow raised in a delicate arch. He wondered (and not for the first time) how much the bald man paid to keep himself so pristine. But asking that question meant that they were something akin to friends – and neither of them wanted to admit that.

              “Just...nothing of interest,” Petyr deflected.

              “I see,” Varys mused. Because civility required him to say something, not friendship. He finished writing notes – in a neat hand, too, as if he wasn’t capable of being anything but. “How has your niece been?”

              Petyr bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check. Varys – like Tywin, like anyone of good moral senses – wouldn’t respond well to the truth. The rational part of himself shrank at the truth, so much so that Petyr couldn’t help but wonder where he’d gone. Where was that rationality during those a hundred scenarios when he pictured what he’d do to Sansa? Nowhere to be found. So Petyr just said, “It’s fine. She’s fine.”

              He couldn’t help but stare at the other man, wondering on something he once said during a company mixer. Varys made no motion to drink, and Petyr asked why. Petyr knew that drinking was as much a part of civility during work events as was saying  _ bless you _ when someone sneezed. Nobody drank the free cheap alcohol because it tasted good, that was for sure.

_ So you don’t drink. Let me guess, you don’t fuck either? _

              Varys looked  _ tired _ , if anything, at the jape. Like he’d heard it a million times before.  _ No _ , he said calmly, his shoulders barely moving in a shrug. And left.

              Petyr couldn’t help but wonder: how  _ freeing _ it must be not to have this clawing urge. An urge that was mostly absent whilst married to Lysa, because, well, it was  _ Lysa _ . But even Petyr felt the twitch in his cock enough during his years as a teenager and especially his years at university to experiment. To  _ enjoy _ what his body could bring him. But to be rid of the incessant reminders of his niece – to be able to get through a single damn day without imagining infinite scenarios of how and where and when he’d take her… Gods, that must be nice. 

              Couldn’t help but tease the question up his throat, onto his tongue. Tasted the first syllables. Instead, he swallowed it. 

              As Petyr noted – they weren’t friends.

              “I’m sure she’s found things to do in the city?” Varys said, bringing Petyr back into the harsh reality of office lighting and air conditioning.

              “I think.” 

              “...like?” 

              Petyr tried to swallow the retort of  _ Why do you care _ . Except this was small talk. This was insignificant chit-chat that was required of coworkers. Petyr detested it. “Exploring the city, I imagine. And–" his teeth ground against each other "–she met some boy.”

              “Exciting,” the bald man said in an unenthused voice.

              “Hm.”

              “It’s a good thing that Robert passed so suddenly,” Varys said. “How tragic – I’m so sorry for your loss.” Petyr let out an acknowledging grunt. “Though I couldn’t imagine you as a father, in truth. Too much occupied with your work. I’m sure Robert would have missed your company, and Sansa, too.”

              Too occupied with work? Well, recent days would prove otherwise: something red-haired occupied Petyr’s thoughts incessantly. “And you aren’t?”

              The bald man shrugged, a small movement as to not wrinkle the fine fabric of his clothes. “I suppose I’m the same as you, I imagine.”

_ Except you don’t have a niece as beautiful as Sansa. Except you don’t have this ache to fuck her _ .

              Petyr finally understood Varys, just a bit.

              “Now, let’s go into the numbers for the second quarter…” Varys began. 

              Their meeting was a momentary reprieve to the impure thoughts in his mind, allowing for enough clarity to get some work done. Not all of it – and certainly not to the standards that Petyr set for himself. But enough to keep Tywin from pestering him. At least, from pestering him about what was keeping him from completing work. 

_ Oh I just have a constant hard-on for my niece, and it makes it a tad difficult to get anything done when I just want to fuck her senseless _ .

              Well, if Petyr wanted to get fired, that wouldn’t be the worst resignation letter. Probably up there next to  _ I was accidentally caught fucking my own sister in the president’s office _ .

              He wondered if their come stained the oak desk. 

              The sun was setting when Varys finally left Petyr’s office, satisfied with all the mindless auditing that the firm was undergoing. A routine thing, to make sure no information – or money – was being siphoned into anyone’s pockets. Mostly to keep Lannister & Baratheon in the public’s good graces. Everyone here knew how willing – and often – the Lannisters were in bribery. A sure method to win misconstrued confessions in court, or to prompt a heart-wrenching cry for the jury. Petyr wormed his way into this office – with its view of the city – by being  _ the man _ the Lannisters routinely went to. 

              He found it easy to read what people wanted. Someone to fuck, usually. Drugs or alcohol. Guarantees that they wouldn’t go to jail for lying. Guarantees that the other person  _ would _ face time. He didn’t give them it – that was someone else’s job, someone else to dirty their hands. 

              A lesson Petyr only broke once. Well, twice.

              The sun was setting over King’s Landing, brilliant brushstrokes of deep reds and oranges and yellows filtered through the smattering of clouds. The monstrous buildings of glass and steel cast heavy shadows across the narrow streets. 

              He couldn’t stop staring at the sunset. At the vibrancy of the world in this moment of time.

              An image flashed like autumn lightning: Sansa, splayed on his bed, her rich auburn hair a veil surrounding flushed cheeks. A lazy smile on her lips. Deep Tully blue eyes fluttering closed – too tired, too spent, to keep them open. 

              Her fucking beautiful body the canvas upon which he itched to paint his sin. Flesh that was hardly porcelain, so fragile. Ivory, maybe, or even a fired steel that would endure his demanding desires. The crescents of his teeth finding their way from her throat to her breasts. Ten dark circles where he’d gripped her hips, pounding relentlessly into her. The angry red at the join of her neck where his mind  _ needed _ a stark reminder that she was used, that she was claimed. By him. As if his seed slipping from between her legs wasn’t enough. It never would be, not where Sansa was concerned. 

              He had a sudden craving for lemons.

              Petyr downed the rest of the cold black coffee. Headed to the break room to make himself a steaming cup of mint tea to chase away that awful taste. Coffee wasn’t his preference, especially when the night was this young. But damn if the bitter flavor didn’t help distract his mind. Especially when the admin refilled the cupboards with tea, and as if by some will of the gods, stacked the unopened box of  _ I Love Lemon _ above the near-empty  _ Refresh Mint _ . And beside those: a box of  _ Passion _ .

              He closed the door (with a little too much force, startling himself) as he let the scent of spearmint and tarragon tickle his nose. Inhaled it – wishing it could clean more than the stain of coffee on his tongue.

              Which was good. If Petyr could have smelt her – that hint of lemon ever-present on her skin mixed with the taste of  _ her _ … If Petyr could have discerned whether or not Sansa had gotten off on the knowledge that he'd been just outside her door, jacking off – he wasn't sure what his body would have done. 

              Taken her on the counter, probably. 

              An animal. A monster. That's what he had devolved into in three fucking days. And Petyr was meant to take care of her  _ like a kind father _ for another week and a half? This was torture. Madness.

              Oh, but wasn't he a monster already, for different reasons? That, he couldn't deny. That, he couldn't help but weigh which was worse in the eyes of humanity. 

              Well, now it was obvious. A physical manifestation of that base thing that he both so desperately wanted to release and to lock away. When he heard Sansa rummaging through the kitchen as he dressed, he had half a mind to let her finish and show up late to the office (he’d done it before, and a late morning meant a late night and less chance to run into her).

              But his feet moved of their own, pulled forward into a newfound field of gravity, until he was standing at the end of the hall in the grey darkness, watching her. Doing something so....domestic. It felt worse than the stain of his come on his hands in a pitch-black hallway.

              It felt as if whatever thing between them was established, normal. That they were actually  _ a thing _ . That this was how all mornings started: her hair unbrushed (a wild tangle from when he had his fingers gripped in the auburn), her clothes light and loose (though the sight of her making breakfast wearing nothing at all? Or better yet, his discarded shirt, the buttons undone, the scent of her lingering on the fabric as he imagined what he’d done), a small smile on her lips (as she recounted all the ways he made her happy. And by the gods, Petyr would make sure Sansa could never reach the end of that list).

              The lightswitch gave a small  _ click _ . And that taunting thought vanished with the darkness.

_ Don’t be a fool _ , Petyr chided himself. Watched as strands of her hair flew around her cheeks as Sansa startled around, staring at him with spatula in hand. As she did nothing to cover her chest – and said nothing as he let his eyes get their fill of what he couldn’t see in the night.

_ You just want to fuck her. Don’t pretend like you actually care _ .

              Don’t pretend to care; as he asked her why she was making breakfast so early.

              Don’t pretend to care; as she gripped his wrist and he felt her heartbeat – a quick tempo, matching his own. Her skin so warm, so soft.

              Just don’t.

              If Petyr blinked, he could recreate the curve of Sansa’s breasts. The way her nipples peaked slightly against the fabric – as if she was  _ aching _ for him. As if she could read the thoughts – both vile and domestic – and said  _ Yes please I want that too. _

_ Yes please, Petyr, give it to me _ .

              There had been a momentary flash of fear when he couldn’t help but inform her ( _ how kind of you _ ) that she should go shopping with Kella. How her hands had begun to cover herself just as the elevator doors slid closed.

              He’d gone maybe a floor before Petyr slammed the  _ Stop _ button and relieved himself in the elevator. Stared at his reflection in the mirror – and couldn’t help but picture Sansa’s face staring back at him through it as he took her from behind.

              His cock  _ needed _ something more than his own hand.

              His cock  _ wanted _ Sansa. So. Fucking. Badly.

              “...what do you think, Petyr?”

              He blinked.

              She was beautiful, that was true. Any man (and many women) would love to feel her sultry gaze focused only on them. Her mouth, her hands, the weight of her body as they fucked her.

              A pity Petyr's attentions were firmly elsewhere. 

              He glanced down at the menu, oblivious to whatever question she asked. Answered blindly: “Everything is good, though the steaks are absolutely divine. Paired with a ten-year Dornish Red.”

              The woman stared at him through heavy lashes. She’d outdone her makeup tonight, heavier than the mask she applied on Sunday. Her eyeshadow pulled on his gaze – which was saying something, given how much smaller her dress was tonight. Not what she had worn to work, despite the fact that Petyr didn’t bother to change. He’d devoured case files until his alarm told him to get his ass to the restaurant. But the woman’s efforts were obvious. No doubt where she was expecting the night to go. “I suppose I’ll have whatever you’re having. Though I do hope there’ll be time enough for  _ dessert _ …”

              He flicked his eyes at her and gave her a wicked smile to match her own. “I should hope so.”

              Petyr only felt  _ a little bad _ that he was treating Myranda as a thing to relieve himself. As a niece stand-in ( _ At least I’m buying her dinner _ ).

              More than that, it was a matter of self-preservation. Petyr wouldn’t put it past Myranda to have noticed  _ something  _ during her brief meeting with Sansa on Sunday. Wouldn’t put it past the woman with bountiful cleavage and thickly-drawn eyeliner not to catch the sudden shift in Petyr’s attention, the way his cock finally hardened at the sight of what it truly wanted.

              Keeping Myranda close was safe, even if it was detestable an act. At the least he would be able to release all of his energy to the imagination of a lithe redhead. 

              “Your niece is lovely,” Myranda said, and if Petyr didn’t know better he’d think the woman read his mind.

              He forced himself to think of the cases piled on his desk. A malpractice suit that would be easy to dismiss in court. A homicide done in an act of passion that he was waiting to hear back from Lothor in the police department about  _ accidentally misplaced _ evidence. The stupid retrial.

              Anything but the beautiful girl with the perky breasts making an omelette in his kitchen. Anything but how he wanted to lift her on the counter and taste her beautiful cunt. Would she taste like lemons and sin?

              Fuck, this wasn’t going to work.

              “She is,” Petyr said finally, with enough boredom, hoping his demeanor and voice belied nothing of the hammering in his chest. Or his cock. “Though she isn’t of my blood – she is the daughter of Lysa’s sister.”

              Myranda twirled her wine, gave it a careful sip, before answering. “She passed away, too, right? The sister?”

              Petyr watched the waves crash against the sides of the glass, a deep crimson. If he squinted hard enough he could see himself in a sea of rich auburn. Fighting against the storm – but still drowning. “Yes, unfortunately. Sansa has other siblings, I’ve heard, though some are dead and some are missing.” He tried to remember what else Varys had debriefed, and what Petyr’s own spies found out about Lysa’s family before she took ill. If it weren’t for her name and her predilection towards him, Petyr would have willingly married into any other family. 

              Granted, any other family wouldn’t have taken someone like Petyr so easily. And Arryn was just as good as Stark or Tyrell in these parts. 

              Anything but Baelish. Anything but a no-one.

              “She’s off to university in a few weeks,” he continued. He didn’t know why he was telling Myranda so much – perhaps as a way to keep his thoughts calm about his niece. Better to think of her dearly-departed family rather than the way she let her hand linger on his wrist. The way he felt her pulse – a steady  _ da-bump _ mimicking the banging of his heart. Much better.

              “And then you’ll be a bachelor again?”

              Petyr  _ definitely _ didn’t like the way Myranda leaned towards him, elbows perched on the edge of the table, head cradled in her palm. As if she was  _ assessing _ him. It was...unnerving seeing the similar gaze staring back at him. No wonder people avoided him as much as possible.

              He also couldn’t ignore the fact that Myranda made use of  _ bachelor _ and not  _ widow _ . Not at all disguising her intentions. Which was fine by Petyr – so long as she knew nothing of how hard his cock was for his (underage) niece, then it didn’t matter. Myranda was – like everyone else – a thing, a pawn. To be used and discarded.

              And right now, he needed something warm and responsive beside his hand.

              The waitress showed up then, taking their order with a well-practiced smile. He offered his and Myranda’s menus, not afraid to give the girl his own well-practiced smile. As if to say: this is how it’s done.

              A smile that faltered when he saw  _ her _ .

              Her hair in a simple updo that only elongated the beautiful column of her neck (one that he so desperately wanted to map with his lips). A modest dress that was too nice to be something that she brought from school in Highgarden – something she must have bought with Kella yesterday. 

              Petyr couldn’t help but stare at the line where fabric ended and the skin of her collar (so beautiful) began. Or the similar join along her thighs. And let the vile thought of  _ Did she buy a matching pair of lingerie _ weave in his mind. Kella didn’t say anything of the sort, only that she bought some  _ very cute outfits _ . 

              Sansa.  _ His _ Sansa.

              But not with Petyr. His jaw clenched so tight he thought something would break.

              “Oh! That’s her, isn’t it?”

              Petyr wanted to yell at Myranda:  _ Shut up _ . Shut up shut up shut up. As if she wasn’t  _ allowed _ to look at Sansa so much as speak about her. So no much as inhabit the same plane as her. Well, it wasn’t  _ Myranda  _ he wanted to yell at. It wasn’t  _ Myranda  _ he wanted to punch in the face or strangle until his fingers grew numb.

              That animal, that base thing inside Petyr, awoke and growled at the boy sitting across from Sansa.

              That  _ same _ damned boy from earlier. 

_ I should have gotten rid of him already, _ he thought. 

              “Nice to see she’s busy with her own date, hmm?” Petyr slid his gaze back to Myranda, trying to discern the lilt of the way the woman trailed her sentence. Trying to discern whether or not the past second (what felt like a solid minute of restraining himself from acting on those sweet images, of picturing how the boy’s eyes would bulge) gave him away. 

              “Yes,” he managed, with as much calm as he could muster. 

              Because Sansa  _ should _ go for someone her own age. Wasn’t that what he’d decided after releasing himself at the sight of her sleeping? That this – whatever  _ this _ nonexistent thing was between them, which (he reminded himself) was very very not legal – couldn’t happen. Shouldn’t happen.

              Sansa was a young girl, and Petyr would truly be the monster if he denied her the privilege of being a child. Of doing dumb things like this: going out on dates with boys she won’t remember. Who would probably leave sloppy kisses on her lips and fumble against the clasp of her bra.

              Still.  _ Still _ , he couldn’t quench the boiling rage that welled in his stomach. 

_ It's just dinner _ , Petyr told himself. 

              But so was this: just dinner between him and Myranda. 

              He worked tirelessly to smooth out the napkin over his lap, worried that if he didn't busy his hands they would certainly find their way around the boy’s neck. 

_ Talk about something, anything.  _ “How's your father been? Still in the Vale, right?”

              Myranda leaned forward – so much so that her breasts were about to pop out of her dress. At least  _ normal  _ people would be thankful for the slip of fabric. If Petyr bothered to stare (he did glance, as was expected of someone being seduced) he would be able to guess what color her nipples were. “Yes, the sour old man,” she began, scrunching up her face. It might have been adorable if Sansa did it– _ Stop _ . “Always complaining about me being alone in the big city. Even since university, you know? Afraid what would happen without his protecting his little girl.”

              Myranda definitely wasn't the one needing protecting. 

              Not with the way she was running her heeled foot against his leg. 

              Petyr took a long drag of his own wine, peering over the lip to see if something similar was happening at a nearby table. 

              “Oh, these city boys are too  _ easy _ ,” she continued. “They see a big pair of tits and they forget their own names. Which is fine – as long as they buy me some good drinks and they're screaming mine by the end of the night.”

              “That's true,” Petyr admitted, drawing his gaze back to his date. “Though most boys like to think they know what a woman wants.”

              “Too bad they know shit.” She laughed, not at all ladylike. But anyone who nosied about what was happening at this table would be too occupied with the way Myranda's breasts laughed along too. Petyr used the moment – barely a second, two tops – to unashamedly look at his niece. 

              Sansa had the same idea. 

              The boy was finely dressed, too, and a charmer if anything. But Petyr couldn’t help the small surge in pride that Sansa’s attentions were stolen by him. He almost smiled to her. Almost.

              Except (even from the distance and the dim light) Petyr saw Sansa’s gaze flick down to where the tablecloth hung several inches above the floor, just as Myranda let her foot travel a long, slow climb up his shin.  _ Damn her _ .

              His niece’s gaze shot back up, her face tinged pink. Petyr could see the obvious  _ concern _ in Sansa’s eyes at the bounty that was presented for Petyr’s plucking. Sansa’s own chest bowed inward slightly, and she glanced back to laugh at the boy.

              And the boy took the invitation to lean in and touch her hand.

_ Fuck.  _

              “Worried about her?”

              Petyr startled. It had been way longer than two seconds. “Yes, just as your father worried about you I'm sure.”  _ Wrong.  _ He might not be intimately familiar with Nestor Royce – Petyr had met him once or twice when Lysa insisted they vacation to the Vale (“Where even the gods can hear how much we love each other,” she had said. Petyr shuddered at the memory). But he could say with enough certainty that Nestor loved his daughter as a father should. Petyr, meanwhile, loved his niece as no man should. Even if they weren't related by means of a dead woman. 

              “Oh, please, Petyr,” she said, traveling her leg up higher across his shin. Did Sansa see? Was Sansa imagining it was her across from Petyr, just as Petyr was working his brain to imagine another girl sitting in front of him? “Trust me when I say that your niece  _ needs  _ some good experience. Especially since she's going off to university soon.”

_ That’s true, but _ ...

              Myranda continued: “And if she’s lucky, she’ll meet some cute boy and go get married and have babies and grow old together...” She finished by rolling her eyes.

_ That _ thought left a sour taste in his mouth that even the wine couldn’t remove. “I'm just worried about that boy she's with.”  _ Why _ . It was a hunch more than anything. All the boy had done (that Petyr was aware of) was him giving Sansa his number. And a smile ( _ I bet he has perfect pearly white teeth, and dimples to boot _ ). 

              Myranda made an obvious gesture to look at their table. Petyr did, too. 

              The boy – as if on cue – scooted his chair over so they sat at a corner. ‘Much better isn’t it’ Petyr read on his lips. Sansa nodded, too polite to say anything on the subject.

              “Do you visit your father often?” Petyr steered their conversation into mindless small-chat, about life and work and (gods-forbid) hobbies. He allowed Myranda to continue her tease – with foot and cleavage and smirks – just to keep himself occupied with anything but what he’d seen. How that fucking boy just...took what he wanted. How Sansa let him. 

              How much it  _ affected _ Petyr.

              Their food arrived first, and their conversation trickled to silence. They ate – faster than was socially allowed for a steak that cost as much as it did. Petyr didn’t care about the taste, about how his finger dug into the backside of the knife as he cut pieces. Watched as the meat bled.

              He didn’t care that Sansa was on a date with some douche of a university student that was trying only to use his dimpled-smiles to win his way beneath her dress.

              He didn’t care that Sansa laughed along with whatever he said. That she didn’t look back (Petyr offered very small glances from the corner of his eye, afraid to fully look for fear that he wouldn’t be able to look away. Or to explain his immense curiosity in a niece he’d only known for half a week). Like Sansa was trying to taunt  _ him _ for going on the date with Myranda.

              He didn’t care, either, that the boy left his hand on her knee, even when their food arrived. Didn’t care.

              He didn’t.

              He  _ shouldn’t _ .

              And yet...

              “Would you like dessert?”

              Myranda gave a cursory glance at the sweets menu, trailing her finger over each picture of cake or tart. Slow circles meant to  _ entice _ , Petyr knew. And as she placed it back beside the seasonings, she looked up through her lashes again. “I’d much rather have something sticky and salty for dessert. Work off dinner, you know?”

              Petyr gave a quick glance at his niece.

              And saw how she was  _ letting _ the boy snake his hand beneath the table across her leg.

              Leaning forward to kiss-

              “Let’s go.” Petyr practically shot out of his chair. Red. His vision was red, his blood boiling beneath his skin. It took all of his self-control not to storm the three tables separating them and rip the boy from his niece. Pound some fucking sense into him.

              He didn’t have to coerce Myranda out of her chair – she was just as ready to finish the night between sheets.

              “Your place or mine?” she asked as she shucked her coat on in the chilly winter air. 

              A hotel would be best – the lack of familiarity. No question about what exactly this was – a quick fuck (that Petyr bought her dinner, because he wasn’t a monster). Sleeping at Myranda’s meant he would need to navigate his way out of her embrace. He imagined the woman to be a  _ snuggler _ .

              But taking Myranda back to his own apartments… A wicked idea seeped into the rationality of his mind: him plowing deep into the woman from behind in the entryway as the elevator doors slide open to reveal Sansa (and that damned boy) eager to do the same. Petyr looking back as he gripped Myranda harder, hurting her. Watching as Sansa stood there, staring, unable to move... 

              And what? Teach Sansa a lesson if she brought the boy home?  _ This is how you fuck, sweetling. Here – let me show you instead of that stupid boy of yours _ .

              He shook his head. Swallowed a hearty lungful of winter air, hoping to cool this sudden urge to  _ hurt _ . At least the after effects of sex helped calm the body and mind. He fucking needed some calmness right now, even if this woman with overflowing breasts and a wicked smile wasn’t his first choice. “You remember the way?”

              Myranda nodded, keys already in her hands. Eager. For a different reason than Petyr was.

              He only managed to nod back at her before striding to his car. As much as it had been an effort not to take a knife and carve out that fucking smile (and he  _ did _ have dimples, and pearly white teeth, and an infectious laugh), it was  _ more _ effort not to drive his car into something. Someone.

              Petyr had barely hit the elevator button before Myranda had her hands all over him. Before he let his own explore. Succumbed to the wills of his imagination.

              Out of all the was to describe what they’d done,  _ angry fucking _ summed up just about all of it: how harshly Petyr gripped her, how many marks he left with fingers and teeth. How he shoved her facedown, back bent, and plunged himself into her with abandon. Angry fucking, yes. Something where  _ love _ was not found.

              It was a  _ punishment _ of sorts. But not against Myranda, or even against Sansa. He hated  _ himself. _ Hated that  _ this  _ was the person he was now. 

              The woman beneath him moaned.

              If anything, it was a blessing Sansa thrilled on what his anger did–

_ Myranda _ , he reminded himself. Petyr’s eyes shot open. Tried to reconstruct the truth of it and not his sick fantasy. He was fucking the woman from work and not his niece. Not his niece. Not Sansa. 

              But who was he fooling? Not himself. Not with the way his mind keep transforming the woman beneath him. Not with the way he pictured Sansa’s face in the throes of her pleasure: would she leave him breathless moans as indicators that she was fucking loving it? Would she cry out, moan, pray to the gods? How many times would she scream out  _ Petyr Petyr oh my gods  _ as he brought her to orgasm?

              Would she look up at him with flushed cheeks and a lazy smile?

              Would she lean forward to kiss him and ask for more?

              The ache in his heart was just as bad as the one in his cock.

              He thanked the gods he didn't call out the wrong name as his seed filled the condom inside her. Thanked the gods Myranda wasn’t actually a snuggler.

              Even in the haze of his afterglow, Petyr couldn't help but see cascades of auburn hair and startling blue eyes – and smell the faint taste of lemons – when he closed his eyes and let darkness drag his body to sleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This Petyr is waaaay more jealous than I thought, but damn if he isn’t fun to write! And I'm sure y'all don't mind ;))]


	6. sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Admittedly all of this so far has been a lot of a tease, but I can't help it it's too fun!! I promise we’re nearly to some grade A sin, just bear with me a little longer, my friends ;)]

              “Are you...sure?” Sansa had just _heard_ it. But still, she wasn't sure what to believe at this point. Her head knew what to do (don't break off the engagement for something you'll regret), her heart too (Willas was kind enough, a little boring, true. But not nearly a horrible _husband_ like in some of the movies she’d seen). But that _third spot_ was proving...problematic in all this. There wasn’t any previous data to compare to, nor was there anything blossomed between her and Willas regarding that pesky spot between her legs (to be saved for their wedding night, as was expected of a proper lady). Sansa twirled an invisible band around her ring finger.

              She heard Margaery _tsk_ on the other end of the phone. “I mean, _not really_ . Willas might be peeved for a minute. Or a few months. But if there's one thing I know about you, Sans, you've got that Stark loyalty in you. Remember when Madame Nysterica almost caught us sneaking out to go to go watch, what was it called? Oh, _A Night to Forget_?”

              Sansa smiled. That had been in her first months in Highgarden. Margaery practically coerced her (to put it lightly) to break the rules, and it went against every fiber of Sansa’s being. But the movie was good, and it was nice having another girl’s company. Sansa had missed the feeling. “True. But, I'm not the one that glued Nysterica’s butt to her chair.”

              “No, but you didn’t tell on me for that either, so...” She could practically _hear_ the wink her friend gave her. “You're a good person, girl. Honestly. I trust you.”

              Margaery’s words _should_ have made Sansa feel better. Except they didn’t. All they did was worsen the sinking feeling in her stomach. Was she a good person, truly? If she _was_ , then what would these horrid thoughts that plagued her when she was unaware? The way that she could _see_ the silhouette of him in in the slit of her open door. The way she _knew_ what he was doing in the shadows. The way she _reacted_ to it all, despite what her mind and heart warred against the natural reaction of her body.

              But it wasn’t natural. _None_ of it. Not even in a wicked novel or a flighty fantasy. What the hell happened to Sansa in the past week?

              “Yeah,” she replied finally. Sansa twirled a loose thread in her pants.

              “He’s cute though, huh? Your _suitor_?”

              Sansa remembered the way the light bounced off of his sandy curls, turning them into a halo of gold. He had a comely face, and a lovely smile. A bit _forward_ , yes, but Harry wasn’t the first boy to proclaim his affections. “Yeah. I suppose he isn’t bad to look at.”

              Margaery barked a laugh. “Mother help me, Sansa. ‘Isn’t bad to look at’...” Sansa couldn’t help but smile.

              This was the sort of conversation she should be having. A seventeen-year-old girl gushing about cute boys with her friends. Getting advice how to woo him, how to ask him out on a date. What a _first kiss_ would feel like. Wonderful banalities of being a teenager.

              Except Sansa was _engaged_ . She should be talking about the wedding (of which Margaery adamantly wanted to keep it secret, aside from the dress photos or basic questions of Sansa’s preferences of flowers, food (lemon cakes, of course), the like). She should be talking about...she didn’t know, she was only _seventeen_ after all. What did engaged people talk about? Getting a house? Adopting a dog? Babies?

              Sansa shuddered.

              It was a fanciful dream when Margaery had proposed the idea to her. After all, Sansa loved the Tyrells – nearly as much as she had loved her own family before they were split apart. And Willas was a good man, not at all like some of the boys Margaery’s cousins dated (Elinor came home in _tears_ one night, a gift of bruises across her cheek). The _stability_ of it enticed her. The _comfort_ of a family. The knowing reassurance of who she was and what she was going to do when everything else was utter shit.

              And Margaery couldn’t stop raving about how much fun they were going to have _as sisters_ . And Olenna (as biting as ever) welcomed Sansa’s presence as a breath of fresh northern air to sweep away the cloying scent of roses. Loras and Garlan were kind, Mace too, and the cousins and the everyone. Even Willas was kind. They all wanted her to shed her Wolf skin and become a beautiful Rose. So Sansa said _Yes_ , again, and again, and again.

              After all, it was never about what _Sansa_ wanted.

              She shook her head. “I mean, I don't _have_ to go on a date with him. It was just an idea.” A foolish idea. And besides, Sansa meant to ask Petyr about the boy. Maybe her uncle would have insight about what boys wanted, or how to deal with them on a date (though Sansa had a rather big _hunch_ what Harry wanted). Still...half of her wished Petyr didn’t work such long hours. The apartment was lonely in the late hours.

              And the other half of her was relieved to find her door closed throughout the night.

              “Girl, you never dated in school, and now you’ve found yourself a cute Lander and you want to date?”

              “Because I was _engaged_ –"

              “ _Girl_ .” Margaery emphasized, cutting her off. “Really – _really really_ , I mean it. Go out and have fun. You need some experience, Sansa. You’re too stuffy for your own good, no wonder you and Willas are perfect for each other… But not _too much_ fun – my brother might get offended if you knew something he didn't, that nerd.” Margaery meant it as a joke – was laughing as if it was another dumb story, like how they totally-accidentally overwashed Walda’s clothes so they all shrank ( _That’s what she gets for being a bitch_ , Margaery reasoned. Sansa fought against the urge to tell the Madame Director the truth). But gods if Sansa didn’t feel a sinking weight in her stomach at...everything.

              It was a wonder she hadn’t drowned yet.

              “Are you sure, though? I mean, I don’t think there’d be enough time to learn anything before the wedding.”

              She heard her friend sigh over the receiver. “Sansa, I swear to the gods – even the Old Gods!”

              “What?”

              Margaery laughed, such a soft, trilling thing. “Oh, nothing. You’re too cute, you know? I love Will to death but damn if your cuteness won’t be wasted on him.”

              Sansa didn’t know what to respond – or how to – and hoped Margaery could hear the shrug. Sansa worked the thread in her pants looser.

              “Anyway! Girl, you never did respond which dress you liked? We’ve got it narrowed down to the lace front with all the flowers and the little crystal beads as the vines – super cute. Or the more simple one with the heart collar. Also super cute. And you haven’t gotten bigger since I took your measurements, I hope?”

              There it was again – that roiling, sinking, uncertain thing clawing through her stomach. _You’re getting married soon_ , her brain told herself. _Be happy. Be happy for your friend, and your husband_. “No, I don’t think I’ve gotten bigger,” she answered, the uncertainty not because of her weight.

              Margaery didn’t know that. “Sans, sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you’re _fat_.”

              “No, I know. I’m just…” _Scared shitless? Terrified? Wondering whether or not (and not for the first time) if this might have been_ too fast. If only her family hadn’t been splintered: if her parents were still alive, if her siblings were still showing their annoying love, if everything was _okay_ like it used to be. Then maybe Sansa wouldn’t have jumped at the first chance of being loved. “...I’m just nervous, Marg. It feels like yesterday we met, and then we made plans, and now it’s here, and I just– I’m just nervous.”

              “I know!” Margaery sighed happily. “I can’t wait to be your big sister, _officially_. And not just the one that gets us in almost-trouble with the Madames…”

              Sansa smiled, but didn’t say anything.

              “Maybe I could swing by King’s Landing and get you try these dresses on yourself. I know it’s real pushing it, but the dress is pretty damn important. I want to make sure it fits you – we’re not exactly the same, you know.” A pause, the faint sound of her rustling through papers, or a book perhaps. Margaery was smiling when she said, ”Gods, girl. You’re going to be the prettiest bride. Willas is _so_ lucky to have you.”

              Sansa curled the loose thread round and round her finger. Let it dig into her skin for a few moments. It _snapped_ in one, clean movement. “Yeah. He is.”

* * *

              It had been an impulsive purchase, yes. One that Sansa hoped would somehow magically grant her a certain _confidence_ that she hadn’t had. Though what would she call standing up to him, approaching him, _touching_ him (on his wrist, yes, but still). What would she call _actually buy the damn things_ as if they were the ticket to...what?

               _You need some experience_ , Margaery’s words trilled in her mind. Sansa once awkwardly tried to kiss Willas (as a _betrothed_ couple is wont to do); he maneuvered his face so she kissed his cheek instead. Smiled at her as he said it was something she should save for after their marriage. Sansa wasn’t stupid to know he was gentleman enough (or smart enough?) not to kiss an underage girl. Even if they were engaged? Sansa didn’t know. She didn’t broach the subject again with Willas, going only so far as brief hugs and platitudes: _I’m so excited_ and _I can’t wait till we’re married_.

              They were as empty as she felt when they announced her parents died. _An accident_ , they said. Was this – the marriage to Willas – an accident, too?

              And aside from her husband-to-be, well, Sansa hadn’t much _experience_ in the ways of dating or flirting or _more_. Except – who was Sansa getting experience for?

              “Damn...”

              She turned her attention from watching the passing cars, the way the wind tickled the palm fronds. King’s Landing was very different in the winter than Winterfell, but it had it’s own charm, too.

              He wore a suit, so unlike the casual clothes he’d been wearing when Sansa first saw him. Hair brushed back, an honest smile. His feet stopped him several steps away from her, admiring the way the dress sat on her (modest enough, since she bought it with Kella. Still, that didn’t stop the _other_ purchase, of which Sansa made a big deal of saying it was for someone that she wanted to make a special impression on. Kella went _modest_ on that, too, though modesty was subjective between a dress and lingerie). Sansa brushed her hair in thick ringlets before pinning it into a simple updo. Wore the sapphire earrings that were a gift from her mother on her fifteenth birthday (just before they passed). They were good-luck charms, and gods if Sansa needed all the positive superstition tonight.

              Her stomach fluttered with a storm of butterflies. Sansa smiled as he closed the gap between them. She said by way of hello: “I don’t remember you being this handsome?”

              Harry barked a laugh. A few of the older patrons stared, but the boy ignored them. “ _I_ remember you being pretty. But, damn, you’re prettier than I remember.”

              She felt the flush spread across her cheeks. It was such an innocent compliment, but it made Sansa feel lighter than she had talking with Margaery.

              “Come, come,” he said, offering Sansa a bent elbow and a dimpled smile. She took it, and Harry led them past the line of fancily-dress men and women on dates. The ages varied: some only a few years older than Harry, some as old as the queen of thorns herself. The misplaced family here for the father’s birthday (though the _children_ were older than Sansa). The host glanced at Harry when they approached. “Reservation for eight-thirty. Hardyng.”

              The host (whose gold-plated name-tag read _Remington_ ) nodded with a minimal amount of distaste at Harry’s obvious ignorance of rules. Sansa was too nervous to look at the list of names, choosing instead to look at the restaurant. It looked fancy from the outside – and from the line of people – but the inside exacerbated it. Dim lighting, polished sconces along the edge with a massive chandelier in the center of the dining hall. Almost every booth and table was black leather with pristine white tablecloths.

              Sansa felt very out of place. The fanciest place she’d been to with her family was a local steakhouse just outside Winterfell that her father loved as much as he loved the owners. They were practically family ( _Ah, Ned you old bastard. Who’s birthday is it today?_ ). Sansa needn’t wear anything but clean jeans and an empty belly. They didn’t have to _dress up_ their appearance or their manners. They could just be themselves.

              When was the last time Sansa got to do that?

              “Right this way.”

              She followed behind Harry who followed behind a waitress that was talking about the history of the building, the franchise. How it had been passed down from generation to generation. Boring banalities.

              They’d barely sat down when a pair of waiters came with a platter of chilled vegetables and a basket of three types of bread. It was almost a dance, how they moved around the tables and the other patrons, placing things with precision. One left at the end, leaving the second waiter standing beside the table with an corked bottle of wine. “Wine, sir?” he asked Harry.

              The boy nodded.

              Sansa heard her mother’s warning of drinking (Olenna had offered Sansa drinks (at home, only), and it was impolite to refuse, but Sansa never much enjoyed the taste of alcohol. There was a thriving in the Tyrell household that unwillingly soaked up Sansa’s drinks). _Don’t drink before you’re legal,_ her mother warned. _Bad things will happen_. So she piped up: “But I’m–"

              "–not ready to order yet.” Harry interrupted. “If you’ll give us a few minutes?”

              The waiter nodded as he twirled the wine from the bottle into the glasses, filling them evenly. Not a drop on the tablecloth. “Certainly, sir.”

              Sansa tried to hide behind her menu, trying her best to collect the confidence that she had moments ago. _This wasn’t the time to act like a child_. “So,” she began, lowered the leather-bound booklet that described just how ritzy the place was (fifteen dollars for a basic salad? Good gods). “Do you go to school in the city, or?”

              Harry took a generous gulp of his wine. “No, I’m on winter vacation right now. Spring semester starts next week, though, so I’ll be heading back to university this weekend.” He made a face at that, then laughed it off. “What about you?”

              Sansa laughed, too, as if she _knew_ the hardships of university. The _truth_ wasn’t necessary, but half-truths worked better than full lies. That, she learned from Margaery. Or rather, Madame Nysterica who quickly learned Sansa’s tells. “Me too. Though I go back to Highgarden in a few weeks. I wish vacations lasted longer, I don’t think I’m ready to go back yet…”

              He flicked through the platter of vegetables. Took a bite out of a celery. “Really? Maybe I should ask to transfer to Highgarden, too. Then you won’t be bored.”

              Sansa didn’t know what to say, so she smiled as she picked out the julienned carrots from the platter and arranged them in neat rows on her plate. This was her first _official_ date, and Sansa didn’t really know how to approach it. Harry was older than her, yes, and likely wanted _a little fun_ before he went back to university.

               _You got this_. “What are you studying? Anything fun?”

              Harry shrugged. “Eh, business law. It’s alright. Too many damn group projects though. Which I _get_ , but if I have to deal with another group that doesn’t think the final project is worth doing earlier than a week before it’s due… By the Stranger, I wanted to smack sense into those damned idiots.” Sansa laughed along with him. “What about you? Studying anything interesting?”

              “No, nothing interesting. I’m, um, undecided at the moment. Not sure what I want to do for the rest of my life.” _Aside from getting married in a few weeks. But even that, I’m not sure_.

              “Really?” he leaned back against his chair, one arm hooked over the edge. “I’d have thought you to be someone who knew exactly what she wanted. A good job – like doctor or something? – and at twenty-five, meet Mr Perfect. Twenty-six, marriage. Twenty-seven, a sweet little boy. Twenty-nine, sweet little girl. And then everything goes smooth from there.” Harry made a _smooth_ motion with his hand.

              Sansa couldn’t deny most of that _had_ been her dream when she was younger. When she still had a family. It was unnerving how _right_ Harry had been able to pinpoint her. So unnerving, that she couldn’t help it when she opened her mouth – _I’m actually getting married in a few days, and I’m probably not going to university. Oh, and I have an uncle that might be upset to know any of that. And he probably wants to take care of me unlike an uncle should. And I-_

              Luckily – or unluckily – her gaze caught on movement. Sansa couldn’t help but fear her thoughts were heard by some trickster god and made real.

               _Shit_.

              Sansa tore her gaze back to her menu. Her fingers hurt from gripping it. Her eyes didn’t settle on anything in particular. _What the hell is_ he _doing here?_

               _With her?_

              Over the drowning of fear in her head, she heard Harry ask: “Is that your dad?”

              Sansa couldn’t stare at Petyr, focusing too hard on trying to bring her glass to her lips behind her menu for wont of something to do. The wine was bitter, though that might have only been the taste of the weight in her stomach. Petyr wasn’t her dad, no, but her own father was dead. So technically, yes? Except Sansa had no desire to divulge her entire life’s story to the boy. _That_ would mean that something serious was going on between them. And right now, Sansa wasn’t sure what exactly was going on between them. “Um, no, he’s my uncle.”

              “Oh.” Harry sounded...disappointed? But not really. _Disinterested_. Because a father would go ape shit to see his sweet daughter on a date. An uncle didn’t care one way or another.

              Except _this uncle_ would go ape shit, she knew.

              Sansa chanced to look at them again. How smart Petyr looked in his work suit, with his hair – once perfectly-styled in the morning – now ruffled with a day of combing his fingers through it. At least, Sansa hoped it was his own fingers that mussed his hair, and not the woman across from him. The same woman, Sansa realized, from the first night. Except the woman’s breasts looked bigger, even in the dim lighting. And her laugh was a heavy thing that echoed across the hall.

              “Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked, looking between them. Harry waved his hand in a _start with her_ motion, because chivalry declared he did.

               _A quick escape from the restaurant_. She suddenly wasn’t feeling very hungry anymore. Pointing at the first salad she saw: “I’ll have the, um, raspberry goat cheese salad, please.”

              Harry scoffed at that, but the waiter had enough sense to act like he didn’t hear it. “And you, sir?” He ordered their speciality steak – peppercorn encrusted, with some equally fancy sauce, and cooked well-done.  The waiter nodded, refilled their wine, and left.

              Sansa couldn’t help the feeling that someone was watching her. Someone _in particular_ , with a wicked smile and mossy eyes and a penchant for standing outside her bedroom and getting off – that Petyr _knew_ she was just a few tables away, too. He had to know. He had to sense her here, as she felt a strange tug that had lured her gaze away the moment he stepped foot in the dining hall.

              “So, Sansa,” Harry began, lowering his wine by half in a single sip. He didn’t touch his water cup, and Sansa wished she had asked for a refill of hers. The wine was so bitter. “Do you have any hobbies? You look like you’re rather good with your hands.”

              She wasn’t fond of the way he let the last words roll. But at the same time – she’d heard that same thing before. Heard the implication in the way Harry lifted the corner of his mouth or narrowed his eyes. Sansa could still _feel_ the weight of another’s implication on her skin.

              A deep breath. Again: _You can do this_ . “Yes, actually,” Sansa began, mirroring a smile she saw as elevator doors slid closed. A gleam crossed Harry’s eyes. “I’m rather good at crocheting, and cross-stitching. So if you ever need a scarf or an embroidered pillow that says _Home Sweet Home_ for your grandma, you know who to ask.”

              He let loose a breathless laugh – not quite expecting Sansa’s hobby to be so _boring_. But that’s who she was: boring, uninteresting, ordinary. Hardly a person someone like Harry (or her uncle) would notice. Harry downed the rest of his wine, not without glancing over. “Did you tell your da– er, your uncle about this date? ‘Cause he’s staring at us right now.”

              Sansa fought against the urge to look – afraid that she might not be able to look away. “No. And he didn’t tell me about his date, either. I guess the gods just like playing their tricks…”

              Unless it was a _sign_ of sorts. Except Sansa didn’t want to dwell on that thought. She was here with Harry, not Petyr. She was here to get experience for when she was married. She was wearing her luck (new) lingerie, for crying out loud. Sansa was _not_ here to do...whatever else. Even if the ‘whatever else’ was what Harry wanted – Sansa could see it in the way his eyes often glanced to the collar of her dress. A modest dress, for an ordinary girl.

              Harry talked about his hobbies briefly: rock climbing and fencing, both of which he was in his university’s clubs for, and both of which he offered to teach Sansa. She had a feeling (an obvious one) that his teaching wouldn’t include much rock climbing or fencing.

              When he finished, he look over again. “She’s hot, your aunt.”

              Sansa furrowed her brows. _She’s dead?_ Then realized: “Oh. No, my aunt passed away recently. My uncle’s on a _date date_ , too, if you can believe it.”

              Harry looked over again. Scrunched his face – it was _almost_ cute. “But...he’s so _old_.”

              Sansa couldn’t help but laugh at that.

              She let the thought whisper past her mind – _he’s not_ that _old, in truth_. She followed her date’s gaze, as if to confirm the oldness of her uncle.

              Petyr was already looking at her.

              His own date was laughing at some joke (that he said, or her? Sansa didn’t know why it mattered, but it just did), and Sansa knew what had caught Harry’s attention. Her breasts were practically popping out of the woman’s dress – twice as big as Sansa’s – and at least half of the men’s (and some women’s) attention were frozen on the sight. But Sansa didn’t pay them more than a cursory glance.

              She felt fire burn through her veins from the way Petyr stared at her. Like he had the first morning ( _the morning after you half-caught him touching himself outside your door_ , her mind countered_). Like he _tried_ to look away. Tried to walk away and pretend like she was just a thing he had to deal with for two weeks. Tried to keep his hand from touching himself at the sight of her. But failed. Miserably.

              There was something _exciting_ about watching Petyr collapse. About watching that carefully-constructed face of a lawyer who always got what he wanted and everyone did what he willed – watching that shatter further with every passing second he stood frozen before Sansa.

              She couldn’t deny a terrible mutation of thought. When he flicked the light on, Sansa watching him watching her. If she said _Don’t go to work today_ , would he have? If she said, _Can you show me something_ , would he have leaned her against the counter and show her what his hand did-

               _No_.

              Through this night, this date, there was never a thought of _this is wrong_ while with Harry. It was experience, being here. It wasn’t cheating because Sansa didn’t feel anything for the boy (he was cute, yes, but that was about it). Besides, Margaery knew, and gave her consent. So long as the night ended with Sansa a little wiser and still very much engaged to Willas, well, no harm no foul.

              But now, staring at Petyr who was staring back at her… Sansa felt it. The screaming _wrongness_ that coiled throughout her stomach, up her ribs, settling like a heavy lump in her throat. And settled further, between her legs, a screaming thrum of _wrong wrong wrong_ that echoed her heart. The lump in her throat threatening to strangle her. Except it wasn’t the wrongness that she was on a date with someone other than her betrothed.

              Sansa felt like she was on a date with the wrong person tonight.

              And the _right_ person wasn’t Willas. He was...

              Well, he was currently letting the woman across from him sidle her foot up his leg, inch by inch. Letting her put her breasts on a tantalizing display. Sansa saw the way the woman smiled – at _her_ , as if she wanted to rile up Sansa, as if trying to say _he’s mine, besides you’re too young for him – you wouldn’t know what to do with him if you had him_.

              Harry had said something, and Sansa forced herself to turn away and laugh, hoping it was a joke. It had been, thank the gods, and Harry smiled at her.

              He crept his fingers across that stark-white tablecloth, letting them poke at her fingertips in a silent _May I?_ Sansa nodded. Harry let fingertips trace up and down her skin, tickles that ran up her arm.

              They talked more about their childhood and their experiences at university (of which, Sansa merely talked about her schooling with Margaery, making sure not to bring up any names of the school or the Madames, in case Harry recognized it as a boarding school for _children_ and not a school for _adults_ ). He particularly liked all of Margaery’s stories – some of which Sansa altered so _she_ was the fun, adventurous girl, and not the bookish one who much preferred to study and lie to the Madames instead. Harry was in love with that image of Sansa. So Sansa didn’t bother to correct herself as she let the lies fall out longer and longer.

              Their food arrived first, but Harry was dissatisfied with the doneness of his steak. Thankfully, he didn’t make too much of a deal out of it – Sansa had seen people (older patrons, usually) make an entire fuss out of their steak being too done or not done enough. She always felt embarrassed for the waiters that had to deal with them. Harry, thank the gods, was polite.

              So they were left to their conversation a bit longer. Not before Harry scooted his chair so they sat at an angle, replacing his hand on top of hers, giving her a wink. “Much better, isn’t it?” he said with his practiced smile, dimples on full display.

              Sansa nodded with a practice smile of her own, because manners were pounded into her head. Only, vile thoughts flittered through the filter, not at all the things the Madames would approve. Especially since the man in her dreams was not a sandy-haired university boy. She did her best to hide the shake in her head at the image, turning it into a polite nod.

              Harry sipped at the water, the ice long melted. “Are you originally from Highgarden?”

              Sansa ran her finger along the rim of her own glass. “Yes, and no. I’m from Brightwater Keep, which is a bit south of Highgarden. Closer to the water. But my parents thought it best to send me to the boarding school.”

              “Because you were such a bad girl?”

              Sansa didn’t particularly like the way he said that. Except she didn’t particularly like telling him the truth – _my parents died and my brothers and sister were split up_. And, she was rather enjoying this charade of hers – another lie, yes, but not one that was expected of her. She didn’t have to be the pure, perfect daughter of the Starks. Harry didn’t know her, truly, and she was fine with letting that remain his truth. Sansa brought her wine glass to her lips. “If you think I am.”

              The look was so familiar, even if she’d only received it a handful of times. Sansa had to remind herself what her goal was tonight – and even then, she was starting to forget it.

              “And you?” she asked, by way of bringing Harry out of his own vile thoughts. “You said you’re from the Vale, right?”

              He nodded. “Yeah, though if I had known how nice the winters were down here, I would have applied here. It gets balls-cold in the mountains, you know.”

              She knew, but the Sansa Stark that was on this date didn’t. “Not really. I’m not a fan of the cold.”

              Harry leaned forward, whispering, “If you want, Sansa, I can keep you warm tonight.” He trailed his fingers across her arm, down the side of the chair, before resting on her bare knee. The dress’s hem was shorter than she was used to, but thank the gods it wasn’t at all like the cut of the woman at Petyr’s table. Still, she felt goosepimples prick up where Harry touched her. His hand was burning against her skin.

              In her mind’s eye, Sansa could see, could _hear_ , the growl the filtered across the tables towards hers. The way his hands clenched, the flitter in his jaw as he fought to keep that growl contained (but failed). She wished she could look at Petyr without it being so obvious to Harry that her attention lay elsewhere. Sansa didn’t contain her smile – let Harry think she was satisfied with his touch.

              The food arrived (again) before Sansa could answer. Harry didn’t remove his hand until long after the waiters set the plates down, refilled their wine, and asked if there was anything else they needed. “No. Thank you,” Harry said, almost forgetting the _thank you_. Sansa couldn’t blame him.

              It was a blessing he got a steak, since he needed two hands for that. Cold brushed over the skin when he left her knee, and Sansa snuck in quick glances across the room as Harry cut his steak into even pieces.

              They were practically _wolfing_ their food down. Not even talking to one another, not even _enjoying_ the food (of which, Sansa didn’t want to imagine the cost). She could see the tension in Petyr’s arms, hands, his whole body, as he worked at his food. Just like when they spoke in the kitchen. Fighting against the urge to do _whatever_ he wanted. Fighting against the urge that sent sparks throughout her body at the mere indication – where did his imagination take him, she wondered? And how often did his body betray his mind?

              Sansa smiled.

              “So,” Harry said, setting his knife down. He slid his hand back beneath the tablecloth to rest on her knee – and Sansa realized he’d gone ahead and cut the meat into pieces first so he wouldn’t have to deal with the _inconvenience_ of leaving her knee again. Smart. He let his thumb run a circle over her skin. “You didn’t answer my question.”

              Sansa dug into her salad – which was surprisingly good, though she hadn’t been able to watch them prepare it, so focused on this game of taunts and teases. “What question?”

              He trailed nonsense shapes across her knee with fingertips. Let his tongue exaggerate the motion of cleaning up mushroom sauce from the corner of his mouth as he stared at her with the same sort of darkness that watched her through the slit of her door. “Whether or not you’d like me to _warm you up_ , tonight.” As if to emphasize it – Harry roamed his hand higher across her thigh, reaching the hem of her dress. Slipping beneath it as he leaned forward to kiss her-

              There were two things she noticed. The first: this was her first _official_ kiss, being that Willas was too proud to kiss her until she was legally an adult (and the practice kisses with Margaery only half-counted). Harry’s mouth was warm, and she could taste the pepper tingling her own lips.

              The second, beneath the din of diners and plates and footsteps: a rough command of _Let’s go_.

              Sansa smiled into the kiss with a certain giddiness (it worked!).

              Of which Harry took as an invitation to go further. He pulled on her chin with his free hand. Slid further beneath her dress with the other, barely an inch between him and the lingerie that she felt was wet. But not because of Harry – because of this game she played by herself and won. Because turning on Petyr, teasing him, taunting him with another boy who wasn’t him – somehow, Sansa thrived on that.

              Even though every warning in her mind told her she shouldn’t.

              Sansa pulled away her head and her legs, feeling the rush of cold as his hands slide out from their journey towards her core.

              She turned just in time to watch Petyr storm through the room with Myranda in tow. To finish up their night. To let _Petyr warm up Myranda_. That thought irked Sansa. Warred against the realization that Petyr had been riled up – had stormed out, aching and unable to think – because of her. Because she had taunted him with Harry.

              Just before they left, Myranda turned, and Sansa swore the woman gave Sansa a knowing wink.

              “Is that a _no_ , or...?”

              Sansa Stark – the true one, pure and perfect and all that – would say _no_. What else was she meant to say?

              Harry cocked his head at the Sansa Stark that sat here, a lie of who she truly was. The darkness was still there, swallowing his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched up. “I mean, your old man is definitely gonna get some tonight, anyway. Did you _see_ the boobs on that woman?” His mouth crooked further. “I mean, yours are great, too.”

               _Thanks?_

              “I, uh, I need to use to bathroom? Be right back.” Sansa said, hurrying between crowded tables to the back of the hall. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a line. Sansa sat in the stall long after her body had finished, staring at the pattern of the tiles beneath her heels.

              What was her goal tonight? To get experience with Harry about dating and kissing and...whatever else people in love do. Or – and she realized this was what manifested the moment she saw him stroll through the hall – was it to rile up Petyr?

              Worse: she shouldn’t have been so riled up herself.

              The issue now was what to do with Harry. She could leave, but that would be bad on all accounts. And he wasn’t _bad_ , not like Eryn who bruised Elinor, or Tybee, who didn’t even show up to his date with Megga. In another life, Harry might have been her dream-come-true. Tall, handsome, kind.

              So why didn’t she jump at the chance to go anywhere further with him?

               _Because you’re fucked up_.

              “Excuse me?” a woman asked from the stall next door.

              Sansa jumped back into her body. “Yes, sorry?”

              “Hi, um, you wouldn’t happen to have a tampon on you, would you?”

              “Oh. Maybe, let me check…” Her hand froze inside her purse. _Oh_. “Here.” Sansa rolled it beneath the crack between the stalls.

              “Oh my gods, you’re a lifesaver. Thank you!”

               _No, thank you_.

              When she finished up and went back to the table, Sansa made sure to apply an exaggerated mask of disapproval. “Harry…” she began.

              He looked up from his phone, eyebrow raised in confusion. “Hm?”

              Sansa sat down, setting her purse on the table beside her. How to approach the subject? Probably bluntly – the more she dragged it out, the more likely it sounded like a lie. _Here goes nothing_. “I’m sorry. I just got my period.”

              His face screwed in disgust (even physically recoiled a few inches. Good). “ _Oh_ . Thank gods I didn’t _touch you_.” His body shivered at the thought of blood on his fingers. Or on his-

              “Yeah, I’m _so_ sorry,” she said, stopping the thought. “It wasn’t supposed to come this early. I had been looking forward to tonight, too.” Making a show of batting her eyelashes, as if she was as disappointed with this turn of events as he obviously was.

              He nodded. The lie was taken, if unwillingly. And not the first of the night. Much better than the lie that Sansa was the type of girl to fuck on the first date. That Sansa was the type of girl to let a boy touch her beneath her dress in the middle of a crowded restaurant on the first date.

               _But what if it wasn’t Harry who touched you?_

              She shook the thought out before she could think it further.

              “We could still…” he began.

              Sansa shut him down before he finished that thought, that _dream_ . Where would he want her to touch him or suck him off, anyways? In the backseat of his car? In the alley behind the restaurant? Oh, no no no. This new adventurous Sansa Stark had a _limit_. “I’m not feeling really good. I’d probably pass out from my cramps in the middle of it…” A good thing she only managed to eat a fraction of her salad. Sansa fished through her purse for motrin, exaggerated getting a pill from the bottle.

              It would have been hilarious watching him try to act like Sansa being on her period was no big deal. It would have been, if Sansa didn’t see the obvious _disappointment_ written plainly on his face. So she was right – Harry _had_ only wanted Sansa for her body. Just like every other boy that stumbled his way towards her in school. The shadows were still in Harry’s eyes, yes. But Sansa was praying on him being actually chivalrous enough to not act on it.

              “Next time then?” Harry asked with a half-grin, picking up the check, glancing at it for hardly a blink, before tossing a credit card on top. Sansa offered her own card but he pulled the check out of reach.

               _Would there be a next time?_ Based on what happened, yes. Harry would make sure of that, at least. Only, that might be a problem, because:

              A: Sansa didn’t feel anything for Harry, in truth. He was cute. He was (mostly) kind. But he felt like any of the boys at the all-boys school that tried to weasel beneath her and Margaery’s skirts during field trips or dances. She wouldn’t be surprised if Harry didn’t feel anything for her, too. That was obvious enough – his goal was her pants, not her mind or heart or soul.

              B: Sansa _did_ feel something for someone, hence the quasi-reason for going on the date in the first place. Only, the reason devolved from ‘learn how to act like a girlfriend yada yada’ to ‘make your uncle jealous with rage at seeing you on a date with a cute university student.’ She _definitely_ couldn’t tell Margaery the truth of it. And Sansa _definitely_ couldn’t fight against the grin that wanted to spread over her face. Even if she remembered the way the other woman looked at Petyr. Or the fact that right now they might be rutting in the back of his car. Her smile faltered.

              C: ...did she even _need_ a third reason? ‘B’ was damning enough.

              “Next time, then,” she answered, trailing her hand over his as he reached over to sign the bill. His signature stuttered in the middle. Maybe he was reconsidering the night ending here. He definitely was. Sansa wasn’t.

              Biting cold welcomed them as they left the restaurant. Sansa made a show of her cramps (which didn’t really come till the second day, but Harry didn’t need to know that). As a _consolation_ , she let him leave his hand on her knee whilst he drove her back to her apartment. He dared just beneath the hem, but no further. The music was cheesy pop, the air whipping past through open windows. But Sansa wasn’t listening to it.

              Sansa waved Harry off with a promise to make plans for the future (she had five days to _get over her period_ , so thank the gods for being a woman. And he would be back in university by the time her period was over, so she was good on that end), watching the taillights disappear around a corner.

              She swallowed in a deep breath of winter air. A bit salty from the Blackwater, a bit filthy from all the scum and drugs and who-knew-what littering the street. But it was winter, and gods if it didn’t make Sansa wish she was back home.

              What were her siblings doing? Was Arya still running around the country? Did Bran and Rickon finally find a family that _wanted_ them? Was Jon still alive, still mourning his inability to save Robb?

              As much as this was _fun_ , Sansa couldn’t deny the ache in her very soul that yearned to go back. Yearned for the fire in the great hall at Winterfell, all of her family there. Not doing anything in particular except _living_. Gods, the ache in her chest was enough to start tears at the corners of her eyes.

              Sansa saw Oswell the doorman head around the front, a pair of keys jingling in his hands. Not odd, except for that familiar glint of silver as he approached the building’s door.

               _Petyr_.

              He’d brought the woman _home_ . ( _It’s not your home_ , her mind said. But for the moment, yes, it was). There was a voice that _knew_ exactly what she would see were she to ride the elevator to the top-most floor. And to be honest, Sansa was not in the mood to revisit her first night in King’s Landing.

              The way Petyr had his hands all over the woman. The way the woman raked her fingers through his hair, down his chest.

              Except her memory changed again, a shifting thing every time she recalled it: Sansa was the one threading her fingers through Petyr’s hair. Sansa was the one pressing her body against his, kissing his mouth, his neck. Freeing the hem of his shirt from his pants.

              Sansa stood in the open elevator, watching as she touched her uncle, as he touched her back. As she let him rest his hand on her knee, rising up up up until it was lost beneath her dress. She could _feel_ the trailing of his fingers rise higher along her skin. Felt them clutch the edge of her lingerie, tug them down until they trapped her legs apart. Heard that raspy, taunting voice: _Oh, did you buy these for me?_

              And then Petyr showed her just what he imagined when he got off to the sight of her sleeping. Showed her exactly all the things – the ways – he would have taken her-

               _No_.

              She shook her head. Took in a long, deep breath of air.

               _Gods_ , they were getting worse. She wanted to reach into her head and pull out whatever vile demon was torturing her day and night. Awake or alive – she was _plagued_ with this constant sin This constant _wrongness_. Who was this Sansa? Because she didn’t know her.

              What she did know was that she couldn’t go home tonight. Not unless she wanted to transform that wicked image into something real. And _definitely_ not with that taunting woman there. A _woman_ . Someone that Petyr _should_ lust after. Not his niece. Not his seventeen-year-old niece. Not Sansa, never Sansa.

              Another breath of that not-clean cold air. It matched the not-clean darkness in her chest.

              She pulled out her phone as she wandered a few buildings down, resting against the cold stucco of a building a bit down from the apartments. She hadn’t many friends, and none of them were in King’s Landing. Still, like hells would she walk into that _scene_ again. Sansa could only imagine how much further along they’d be this time – and then, Sansa did her best _not_ to imagine it.

              The _ringing_ echoed against her cheek, freeing her mind from whatever wicked demon had overtaken it in these past days. Sansa stared at the obtuse patterns shimmering against the cars parked on the street. She felt like one of them – shapeless, massless, unknown.

              “Hello?” the voice answered.

              “Hi, this is Sansa?” she said, though they knew who she was. Sansa dug her fingers into the stucco behind her. The pain, the chill air, helped ground her away from the shadows that Petyr wrapped around her the moment his eyes fell on her. “Um, I was wondering if it’d be okay if I stayed over at your place tonight?”

 


	7. petyr

 

           “Get out.”

           Petyr stood from the bed, chill shooting up from the floor. They had fucked two more times last night – though the first had been the best only because the  _ rage _ that suffocated him made him dig into Myranda’s skin harder than necessary. He didn’t remember moving to the bed, though. He had been adamant about keeping her away from his own room (and Sansa’s, though that idea popped in Petyr’s head in his afterglow. The idea that his niece would walk in whilst he’d been in the throes of another woman. His mind carried away when Sansa began to strip and asked (ever so politely) to join). Something about the sanctity of a personal place, blah blah, made him testy about bringing Myranda here. Well, so much for that. Need was a blinding thing, taking over all forms of logic for that sweet release. And besides, neither Petyr nor Myranda would have made it to the bedroom. It was a surprise their first fuck hadn’t been in the elevator, though he wouldn’t put it past Myranda to try it next time.

           Next time... Would there even be a next time? Petyr hoped not, but his cock was  _ thankful _ for the warm body. 

           Next time… Maybe next time, it would be a red-headed girl writhing beneath his touch, moaning in his ear. 

_ I’ll need to buy new sheets _ , he thought, chasing away the growing need at that illustrious  _ next time _ . Petyr stared at the sheets rather than the woman who was spread between them. The fine grey fabric did nothing to hide her assets. Nor was Myranda making an effort of propriety. 

           In the soft morning light, Petyr could see the remnants of their fucking across her skin. And if he squinted hard enough, the sunlight transformed the woman into another.

           Another woman (girl, he chided himself) who wasn’t even here. A fact he knew because Petyr had slunked down the hall in the middle of the night between fucks to see whether or not the other bedroom was empty. It was.

           Sansa was out there, somewhere. The perfection of her, in the expanse of King’s Landing, lying naked with some douche of a boy. How many times would he have fucked her? Would she have  _ let him _ , let that fucker have his way with her in all the wicked positions Petyr had taken Myranda? Petyr could see that boy’s hand slithering across the table to touch Sansa’s. Snaking beneath the tablecloth to lie on her knee. Inching up, higher and higher, until he was at the border between fabric and skin. If the boy had stopped there, Petyr might have been fine knowing nothing would come from that dinner (he was lying to himself, obviously. But it helped. A bit). But  _ no _ . That boy, that fucking piece of shit, dipped fingers beneath her dress. Sansa spreading her legs to give him better access, Sansa leaning in to his touch, Sansa kissing him back. Sansa, lying atop the table, dress hiked above her waist, moaning that fucking boy’s name as he thrust inside her. Turning her head to stare at Petyr all the while.  _ Look what you can’t have _ , she said with her cries. 

           Petyr had been out of the restaurant long before that. If that even  _ happened _ . Petyr barely had the self-control to  _ leave _ last night. So close to rushing past the tables and throttling that fucker. But the image of his Sansa (not  _ his _ , he reminded himself) wouldn’t wash away from his mind no matter how many times he blinked.

           Again – that fire, burning and boiling and raging, smoldered anew. Like it had never truly gone away. Not something to be quenched with a quick, rough fuck. Or perhaps fucking Myranda was hardly the solution to douse it, but rather set it burning brighter.  _ Look what you can’t have _ , repeated in his mind, to the sweet trill of Sansa’s voice.  _ You can fuck every woman in King’s Landing, but you can’t fuck me _ .

           The woman he fucked in question rolled over to face him, pouting like a petulant child with half-opened eyes weary from sex.  _ Come back in bed _ , she said with that sheepish smile. It might have worked on someone else,  _ had _ likely worked on everyone else she seduced. Only, Petyr wasn’t in the mood for cheeky games of ‘let’s-go-back-to-bed-and-forget-work’ right now. Not with her. (But if a different girl were to do the same, to ask with pretty pink lips, auburn hair a tangled halo atop grey silken sheets– Petyr shook his head). Myranda went so far as to  _ try _ , though, tugging lightly on his arm in a last-ditch effort to get another fuck in before work. Petyr (as gently as he could, which was to say not gently at all) pulled his arm free. Stepped away from the bed and headed to the shower. 

           “I need to get ready for work,” he said, as coldly as he could manage. His cock was starting to prepare itself for round four (he thought it was the fourth, though he might be missing one). And gods, he didn’t know where he had the stamina for that many fucks. A good sign, for when – if – he had the opportunity with Sansa. “You better be gone by then.”

           Petyr shut and locked the bathroom door behind him (gods he didn’t want to imagine what would have happened if he didn’t). And slid down the wall, hands in hair.

           Sure, he felt better. A lot better. Nothing like a good fuck to release all that pent up  _ everything _ that had been eating away at him these past days. Myranda, as clingy as she was, knew what to do in bed. Or rather, gripping on the edge of the couch. A fuck several days in the making – the night of the gala was meant to go a very, very different way. Until those damned elevator doors  _ dinged _ . Until Petyr just  _ knew _ he wouldn’t be satisfied until he could feel the curves of Sansa’s lithe body. Until he could taste what his ministrations did to her. 

           Myranda’s cunt was good, he’d give her that. But she wasn’t Sansa.

           Worse – those damned images in Petyr’s mind were making it  _ worse _ . Every moment was filled with opportunities to fuck his niece (in his mind, at least). On the way to work, sneaking off down an alley where anyone could see them if they bothered to turn their heads. Sneaking up to the fuck floor (aka the twenty-fourth floor of his building) and not worrying about who would walk in. Or better than that – hiding Sansa beneath his desk, letting her suck him off as he talked with Tywin or Stannis or any of those snotty fucks. 

           Worse – those damned images that plagued Petyr’s mind as he fucked another woman. 

           Petyr opened and closed his fist, staring at the muscles and bones dance beneath skin. SIlently, he counted his breaths: one in, out; two in, out; three… That roaring fire quelled, just a tiny bit.

           Sansa was a grown woman (nearly). Sansa could go out and date (and fuck) whoever she wanted. Sansa was going to leave in just over a week, and – based on the rash way Petyr was acting – was likely never to set foot back in King’s Landing again.

_ Good _ . Petyr wasn’t good for her in the sense that he so  _ desperately _ wanted to corrupt her. Her mind, her heart, her body. Free moments once filled with blissful quiet were now contaminated by the scent of lemons, the sight of dusk cresting beneath the horizon to the west, the long expanse of porcelain broken finally by midnight. It was a bliss of its own sort. It was a madness in every other way.

_ Let her go _ . 

           Petyr  _ needed _ to let her go. If not for Sansa’s wellbeing as someone so much younger than him, but for his own sanity.

           So why was it so difficult to accept that?

           Then, there was the issue of Myranda. Petyr didn’t want to get rid of her completely. After all, he had forgotten how much better it was fucking someone (that you hate, or that you just don’t particularly care for) than it was to use his hand. Something about the responsiveness. The  _ control _ . Albeit, Myranda was a lot prettier than his dead wife had been, and a lot better at giving head. Still – if Petyr wanted to let loose all of his pent up frustration and uncertainty (read: shameless lust), it wouldn’t be wise to let go one of the few women in King’s Landing willing to sleep with him. One of the few people in this damned city who didn’t outright hate him because of his name.

           Petyr listened to Myranda moved behind the door. He had been right – she crept up on tip-toe towards the bathroom, testing the handle as slowly as she could. When it didn’t move, Myranda let out a huff (not angry or disgruntled, more like she had expected a little more  _ fun _ . Had expected to  _ convince _ Petyr more to put in a good word for her based on how good her hands and mouth were). Let out a little giggle, too, before walking away. Petyr waited until her footsteps echoed quieter down the hall, waited until he felt the rumble of the elevator rise and fall.

           He let out a long breath.

           Petyr waited until the water was scalding before getting into the shower. It was bad for his skin, but the heat, the pain – somehow, it helped. Better to focus on that, than the nymph of a niece fucking some stranger. Petyr turned the heat higher.

           The apartment was quiet when he got out, grey light turning blue between the slits of the curtains. He shuffled through his closet for a suit, matching tie to go with the lightly patterned socks. Going through the motions as he kept his mind focused on anything but the girl who wasn’t home, who wasn’t here.

           Petyr grabbed his phone. As if Sansa would willingly call him, the man jacking off outside her bedroom. He realized then he still didn’t have Sansa’s number.

           But like fucking Myranda – that was for his own sanity. What wicked things would he be tempted to do if he  _ did  _ have his niece’s cell number? An innumerable amount of things, some even he was ashamed to have thought of.

           But he did have someone else’s. Petyr scrolled through his contacts (most were work-related, and given coded nicknames as clever as  _ That Fucking Lady with the Three Orange Cats _ , or  _ Loaded Husband Cheat #12 _ ). It was a  _ gift _ to be given the courtesy of an actual name. 

           His phone vibrated before he finished. Petyr stared at the glowing screen with disgust:  _ The Fucking Lion _ . Tywin. 

_ Not fucking you _ . Except Petyr couldn’t very well decline the call, not if he wanted to keep his job. And at the very least, were Petyr to get fired from Baratheon & Lannister, it would be on his own terms – ones that proved handsomely lucrative for all the secrets he knew about the Lions.

           “Hello?”

           “Baelish. Where the hells are you?”

           Petyr let out a long sigh through his nose, careful not to let it slide into the receiver. The old Lion was particular (read: anal as fuck) about every little thing. And disobedience (or what Tywin  _ assumed _ to be disobedience) was grounds for a pay cut, or a demotion to a lower job. The one Petyr had was very comfortable, not to mention one he was very,  _ very _ good at. “I…”  _ I just finished fucking another one of your coworkers, hope you don’t mind. And right now I’m debating whether or not to go into work today because I can’t keep my cock in my pants over my niece. My niece, of which, might be giving her piece-of-shit ‘boyfriend’  _ (the word tasted sour)  _ a quickie before she leaves his cramped studio flat. Oh, and fuck you _ . “I’m waiting for my niece to return.”

           “Your...niece?”

           Petyr suddenly regretted telling the fucker the truth. What good would come from that, anyways? Nothing, that was certain. Still, half a truth was better than a full lie. “Yes, she was Lysa’s niece, and by extension, mine.” He cut himself off there – no point in telling any more than was necessary. Besides, the Lannister didn’t truly care about Petyr’s personal life – only what Petyr could bring to the firm. Which was half the reason, Petyr knew, that Tywin didn’t send him back to research duties for this  _ insolence _ .

           Tywin gruffed a disinterested  _ hm _ . Not surprising. After all, Petyr had been on a rung beneath Lysa, and Lysa herself had been far, far down the food chain at the firm. Especially in the eyes of the Lannisters. “You were expected at the seven-thirty meeting this morning. Unless your niece is dead, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t be here.”

           That thought sent bolts of ice down Petyr’s veins. His legs wobbled. “She might be, sir,” – the  _ sir _ was an added ass-kissing – “I haven’t been able to get a hold of her.”

           Another bored  _ hm _ . Petyr could hear the leather of Tywin’s chair creak, the shuffling of papers. “You said this was Lysa’s niece?”

_ Where are you going with that, old fuck? _ “Yes.”

           Another  _ hm _ , but Petyr could tell there was a fraction less boredom to it. Not flat-out interest – nothing interested Tywin save for his family’s reputation throughout the country. Which was what the seven-thirty meeting had been for. New evidence came about from someone outside of the original case looking into it. There had been suspicion when it happened years ago – the Lannisters were involved, so by definition it was suspicious. Only, new evidence meant someone might finally get what’s coming to him (that fucker had it coming to him for  _ years _ anyways). But also, with the  _ realization _ for Tywin that Petyr was currently taking care of Sansa...

           Tywin mentioned none of that. He’d already grown tired with Petyr’s obvious disregard to proper work ethic. “You will be in in time for the ten o’clock with the Stevyns, I imagine. If not, I best tell Kevan to find a new senior associate. Someone who isn’t so  _ involved _ in cases.”

           A threat, of course. And Tywin was not one for empty threats – last month he had fired an intern (someone from such-and-such prestigious university in Essos) because she failed to format her notes properly. Or something banal like that. Off she went, crying as the elevator took her down. 

           Petyr worked his ass off to get that senior associate position, one step below partner. Like hell would he let some snot-ass Lion kick him back down. 

           He had been pacing around his room all the while, settled on standing beside the window. Lifted his foot to rest against glass, and imagined it was Tywin he was shoving out the building. Or Joffrey, the cunt. Or anyone else at that gods-forsaken firm. Maybe not Varys, he was a better man than most (a  _ generous compliment _ Petyr was willing to give, only because Varys, like him, was a nobody). One simple shove, and the Lions would fall. Petyr managed to keep the venom out of his voice as he replied, “Of course. Sir. I’ll see you at ten.”

           The line went dead.

_ Not even a fucking ‘goodbye’, you fucking fuck? _

           He exhaled, watching the curtains shiver beneath his breath. It was all Petyr could do not to toss his phone against the wall. Or to jump out of the expansive window. The  _ uncertainty _ of what Sansa was doing – in addition to the general fuckery of Tywin Lannister – was making him jumpy as all hells. 

           The ten o’clock meeting for the Stevyns was more banal than other cases Petyr had his fingers in. Typical wife pissed she found her husband cheating with another woman (was it his secretary this time? Petyr couldn’t remember, but it usually was the secretary). Typical wife pulling out one of the husband’s hunting guns and shooting him with it. Typical King’s Landing bullshit. 

           It was already past eight, and assuming half an hour to get to the firm and get situated with whoever was going to bug him that morning (and  _ gods _ , he hoped Myranda would call in sick today, but luck wouldn’t be that kind to him), Petyr had plenty of time to pace and think and freak out. Great.

           He made the call before Tywin interrupted him, but no one answered. Petyr didn’t want to look  _ desperate _ , and decided to call again at nine. Which left him with an empty apartment, the only company his terrible mind.

           Not  _ terrible _ like the thought that had him stand outside her door and jack off. Not  _ terrible _ like the thought of shoving aside her date and taking Sansa on the table there, smiling as that fucker could only  _ watch _ in horror. Not  _ terrible _ like wondering whether Sansa would like it if Petyr bit her neck or twisted her nipples or spanked her pretty little ass.

           But  _ terrible _ in that Petyr now wondered how far she let him touch her. Wondered if the boy took her in his car, or had the common decency to take Sansa on his bed. And wondered whether or not that boy would beg when Petyr wrapped his hands around his throat.

           He didn’t know  _ why _ he cared. Sansa wasn’t his, in any meaning of the word. She wasn’t of  _ his _ blood. She wasn’t his lover, his plaything, his girlfriend. She wasn’t  _ his _ one bit.

           That last thought had Petyr punching the closest thing, which was the wall. It hurt, so Petyr focused on the pain for the next few minutes. Paced from one end of the apartment to the other and back again.

           The next thing he knew, Petyr was standing in the threshold of her room. Staring at the emptiness where she had been only a few nights ago. 

           Petyr checked his watch – two minutes to nine. Still no word on his phone (he didn’t consider the flurry of work emails as important right now, no matter how many of them began with  _ URGENT  _ or some bullshit). He checked his watch again – still two minutes to nine. Walked passed her room again – still empty. Watch – still two minutes.

_ Ding _ .

           Another work email, likely. Still, he checked the notifications on the off chance that Sansa managed to contact him (despite not having his number?). There wasn’t a new notification blinking on the lock screen.

           The rumble of doors slid opening.

           It was an effort not to run to the entryway.

           It was an effort not to scream. 

           “Oh, I thought you would be at work?”

           Petyr felt all the muscles in his legs, his arms, tighten. It was Kella. Just Kella – though that didn’t stop Petyr from scanning the entire room as if Sansa might be there, somewhere, hiding. She wasn’t.

           “I…” Petyr began, working to keep his voice nonchalant. “I had some things to take care of this morning. Had to pack for the trip.” Which he had completely forgotten about. Where were his suitcase anyways? 

           Kella stretched her arms with a deafening  _ crack _ . Tied her hair back into a loose bun, ready for work. “Ah, right. Is it Dorne again this time, or maybe it was Estermont”

           Was it? Right now, Kella could have guessed the fucking ends of the earth, and Petyr could only shrug in possible confirmation. As the endless minutes ticked on this morning (and it had only been an  _ hour _ , he reminded himself), Petyr forgot more and more about everything that wasn’t his niece. That was...normal? Normal for a father? He wasn’t sure. “I had called you. But you didn’t pick up.”

           Kella tilted her head. “You did…?” She fished through all of her pockets before snapping her fingers with an  _ a-ha _ and pulling her jacket out of one of the bags she brought in. In the breast pocket was her phone. “Oh, so you did call. I’m sorry, I missed it. What did you need?”

           The question burst from his mouth: “Where’s S–"

_ Ding _ .

           Petyr shot his gaze at the metal doors. Waiting – in fear? anticipation? – for them to slide open. What if it  _ isn’t _ her, he wondered. What if she actually  _ was  _ lying discarded in a greasy alleyway, her dress torn open. What if she actually was handcuffed to that fucker’s bed, her own tears and his come staining her beautiful skin. What if she was  _ dead _ .

           With an armload of paper bags rustling in each step, there she was. Fuck, Petyr felt like fucking  _ crying _ , like his chest was near about to cave in on itself, and he didn’t know why. Was it supposed to hurt this much?

           But more than that: Petyr wanted to fucking  _ scream _ . He didn’t, and for that, he gave himself a mental pat on the back later. His voice was barely a breath. “You’re…”  _ not dead _ .

           Sansa didn’t see him. “Where should I put the bags, Kel?”

_ Kel? _ Petyr glanced between them.  _ Since when did they become  _ friendly? He noticed as Sansa wandered into the apartments (who hadn’t noticed  _ him _ , and Petyr couldn’t help but watch Sansa in her obliviousness) that she wasn’t wearing the clothes she went out in last night. And her fancy updo was damp curls caught in the hood of an excessive sweatshirt. So unlike the tempting seductress he’d fallen prey to last night. 

           “Over here, dear. Thank you so much.” 

           Sansa set them down with a grin. “No problem.” Flipped her hair out of the sweatshirt. Turned, before catching the sight of him standing there, staring. “Oh.”

           Petyr watched as the looseness in Sansa’s muscles tightened. The casual smile of thinking she’d been alone with Kella – to have simple girl-talk as they tidied up an already-tidy apartment – slipped into a barely-parted O. Petyr tore his stare away from her lips.

           But (and maybe he was projecting himself onto her, or projecting those wicked thoughts that replaced the terrible ones) he saw how she hadn’t closed up completely. She was  _ curious _ , if anything. Did that curiosity stem as far as a similar ache that pulsated deep within her very soul at the sight of Petyr? Because gods if that wasn’t how he felt.

           Kella – bless her soul – said, “I’m going to go organize the study,” and left without another word. 

           So it was just him and Sansa.

           The minute the soft  _ click _ of the door down the hall echoed into his ears, Petyr took a step forward, two. Sansa mirrored him backwards. The heavy drum of his heart replaced the echo of the door closing, replaced the sound of his shoes on the floor. “What do you think you were doing last night, Sansa?”

           Where the hell did this jealousy come from? He didn’t know. It was  _ Sansa _ . It was  _ something _ about her that brought the fire into a full-blown blaze.

           In her defense, she lifted her chest higher, trying to stand her own ground. How cute. “Am  _ I  _ not allowed to go on a date? Even though you are…?”

           Petyr thought there was more to her words that she smartly chopped off. Still, this defiance did something to him. His cocked twitched at her anger. Petyr cleared his throat, hoping it would clear the haze that was seeping in at the corners of his mind. “That’s different. I was, treating a coworker to a dinner. That’s all.”

           Where the hell did these lies come from? And why was Petyr so defensive about the truth behind Myranda? 

           Sansa licked her lips – a quick movement, one that Petyr’s eyes were drawn to. He forced his gaze back up to her eyes. She asked, “Do all your coworkers touch you like that during  _ company dinners _ ? Or just the pretty ones?”

           If he didn’t know better, Petyr would think Sansa was  _ enjoying _ getting him riled up. 

           “It’s different when it’s between adults, Sansa. You’re still legally a child.”

           “Good to see that you know that.”

_ What is that supposed to mean _ . Petyr narrowed his eyes at her. Let his gaze travel down her body – she was wearing Kella’s clothing, that was obvious from the excess size of the sweatshirt the shortness of the pants. Sansa was still wearing her heels (Petyr found himself momentarily entranced by her painted toes, by the smooth curve of her ankle unhidden by the pants). Her hair was down, her makeup off. Hardly a sight for fashion magazines. But it wasn’t the makeup or the clothes that drew his very soul towards her. It was  _ Sansa _ . Just, Sansa.

           One breath. Two. Three. He desperately needed to calm himself before he did something rash. He needed to confirm those terrible thoughts in his head – kill them before they killed him.  _ Did you let him fuck you _ . Petyr took another step forward.  _ Where did you let him touch you _ . They were in the middle of the kitchen now, cabinets to one side and the island to the other.  _ Will you let me fuck you _ . Behind Sansa, the landscape of King’s Landing shone through her hair. “Did you go home with that fu-, that boy, last night?”

           Sansa didn’t move back, not until Petyr tested her with another step. So, she was brave up until a point. If she was willing to push his buttons, how far was Sansa willing to go. 

           “No, I didn’t,” she said. And the weight of dread sitting in his stomach burned up in the fire. A fire, he realized, that was burning more and more not from the fear that that fucker touched her (or worse), or from the seething anger at seeing her there with someone else. A fire, he realized, that craved to be extinguished between her legs. 

           If she was willing to let that piece of shit asshole  _ touch her _ in a restaurant, in the eyes of strangers, how willing would she be in the secrecy of their home-

           Petyr shook his head.

           “Then why,” he began, closing in on his niece. Petyr backed Sansa against the counter, one arm on either side of her. Sansa gasped at that. Petyr clutched the granite hard enough that either it or his fingers were going to break. Because that fire was urging him to be rash and foolish. Because this  _ closeness _ – the fact that he could see where she had missed specks of mascara on her eyelashes, the fact that he could smell the faintest whiff of her perfume from last night – this closeness was driving him mad.

_ She wants it _ , a vile voice whispered in his ear.  _ She would have told you no if she didn’t want to feel your cock between her legs _ .

           He moved his head an inch closer, wondering if he could smell need on her. Wondering if she was  _ lying _ about not going home with that douche. Petyr dragged his stare from the join between her legs, up the thickness of the sweatshirt (which he could see she wasn’t wearing  _ anything _ save for her bra beneath, the dress likely in one of the bags she helped Kella bring up). Up her neck, smooth porcelain free from claiming marks. Good – the only person Petyr would allow to  _ claim _ Sansa was himself.

           Finally, her eyes (it was an effort not to get caught on her lips, on wondering if they were as soft as they looked. If they looked as pretty wrapped around his cock). Sansa, all the while, stared back.

           “Then why,” Petyr repeated, releasing the death-grip on the counter with his right hand, “did you let him  _ touch you _ here last night.” He gently touched the top of Sansa’s knee with his fingers. His other hand gripped tighter – it was all he could do to keep rationality in check. No matter how desperately the rest of his body was screaming at him to let go and dive into the sweet waters of her sin.

           Sansa wasn’t  _ shocked _ at the revelation. At least, not at his words. That was...interesting. Had she  _ meant _ for Petyr to see? Had she let the boy touch her,  _ kiss _ her (was that her first kiss?), all to make Petyr  _ jealous _ ? Because, gods, if that was her goal, then she better wish she was prepared for the fire she willfully stoked inside him.

           She was, however, shocked at his boldness. At the firm touch on her knee. “I…” she began. Licking her lips again, lick suddenly everything had gone blank save for where Petyr was touching her.

           He moved his head closer, an inch further. The clean whiff of soap tickled his nose. Petyr was not daring to move his right hand now – not trusting what wicked things it would do.  _ Wanted _ to do. “You  _ what _ , sweetling?” 

           “I just–" she licked her lips again, and gods if Petyr couldn’t help but imagine his cock between them, "–wanted some  _ experience _ .”

           Experience… Petyr lifted an eyebrow as he trailed a, “Because…?” in the short space between them, not even hiding the pull of the smirk at his lips.  _ Is she… _ Petyr cocked his head at her, wanting her to finish.

           She did, after a few seconds. “Because I, um, don’t have much.”

           It was  _ despicable _ , he knew, the flurry of thoughts that plagued his mind at the revelation.

_ She’s a virgin _ .

           It would have been  _ cute _ had it not set that fire blazing hotter. Did Sansa know what she was doing to Petyr, truly? Because if she did, she was far too wicked for even him. But if she didn’t...it was madness, having someone so deliciously innocent at his fingertips. 

           “So you wanted  _ experience _ , sweetling…” He let his hand rise a fraction of an inch higher up her thigh. Petyr swore he heard the voiceless hitch of her breath at the movement.

_ What sort of experience do you want, Sansa _ . 

           Because Petyr was more than willing to be a  _ kind uncle _ and teach her. Show her. All the ways a woman can orgasm. All the ways she can bring a man to his. 

           Between those wicked thoughts, he heard Sansa’s breathy voice: “And what do  _ you _ want.”

_ Everything _ . He wanted to show her  _ everything _ .

_ We can begin right now _ , he heard himself say. Watched as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of the pants and tugged them down in one fell swoop. Watched as he snaked one hand beneath the baggy sweatshirt to toy with her breasts, as the other hand spread her legs apart. Pinched nipple and pinched clit. Heard Sansa moan out – for the  _ first time _ . Felt Sansa shudder beneath a man’s touch – for the first time. Watched as Sansa, full with need, pulled his head in for a devouring kiss  –  _ not _ for the first time.

           That, Petyr regretted.

           Still, if he couldn’t have her first kiss on her mouth…

           Petyr pushed and lifted Sansa to sit atop the counter. Kept her legs spread for him with his own legs.

_ You’re so wet, Sansa. To think you won’t be a virgin in a few minutes… _

           Watch as understanding spread across her face: this was it. She was about to let a man touch her, fuck her, and she was going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

           But first.

           Petyr zipped the sweatshirt off of her, admiring the delectable nakedness of her body. Explored her arms, her sides, her back, her neck. Mapping all of her curves and all of her moles before she breathed out a  _ please _ . Then he would memorize the shape and feel of her breasts in his palms. Kneading them, flicking the nipples to beautiful hardened peaks.

_ Please _ .

           And how could he deny his niece that was so  _ willing _ to learn?

           Petyr kept her thighs apart with his hands as he kissed his way up from her knee (sanctifying the spot where that douche had defiled her skin with his touch) up to the join of her legs. 

_ Watch closely, Sansa, _ he murmured against her cunt, drunk on just the smell of her desire.  _ Watch very, very closely _ .

           He wanted to consume her until there was nothing left.

           “Petyr...”

           He blinked. Breathed in a single, shuddering breath that shattered the vision.

           Sansa was still dressed, breaths falling against his face. A face, he realized, was mere inches from hers. She was still leaning back into the counter, though that hadn’t stopped Petyr from invading her space. His hand was still on her leg – squeezing, unmoving, but higher than he remembered. Petyr tried to breathe, but the lump in his throat was too big. His lips were dry. His heart felt like it was going to explode, shrapnel killing him from the inside.

           He wasn’t sure whether he loathed the rationality that halted his hand on her thigh, or praised it. 

           Only, Sansa didn’t stop him. Not when he was lost in such a delicious fantasy. It felt more real than the million others. 

_ Petyr _ , she breathed. As if she, too, was wanting.  _ Aching _ for this.

           But...

_ I’m not supposed to… _

           “...to what?”

           Shit. Did he say that outloud? Petyr must have. But whether he could truthfully answer what he  _ wasn’t  _ supposed to do...because damn if there weren’t a hundred, a thousand. And half of them he just crossed, touching her, leaning into her. 

           Petyr must have voiced that thread-thin conflict between logic and desire, because Sansa tilted her head just a fraction. Petyr could have sworn the faintest hint of a  _ smile _ tugged at her lips.

_ Did she want it _

_ Did she want this _

_ Did she want him _

           No.

           Yes?

           Petyr couldn’t tell anymore what was the truth, and what was his mind (and heart, and cock, and the essence of his soul) wanted the truth to be. He didn’t really know. And he wasn’t prepared to test out the theory by staying here longer than he needed to. Gods knew what would happen if he let that image consume him. If he took Sansa, here – then on the sofa, the hallway, her bed and his. 

           He wouldn’t ever want to leave.

           Still – logic won. Petyr let go of the counter, taking a considerable step backwards. Cleared his throat. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m...I’m supposed to be at work.”

           The lie was so plain, Petyr knew even  _ Lysa _ wouldn’t have believed it, if she were still alive. Sansa obviously didn’t either. Not with the way he acted last night (she had seen him staring at her. She must have heard that animalistic growl when that fucker touched her).

           And especially not now, not with Petyr barely holding on to his own sanity. 

           He flexed his fingers, his left hand aching from its grip on the counter. The right...buzzing, from the feel of her beneath his touch.  _ Let her go _ , the last sliver of rationality echoed in Petyr’s mind. 

           “Go on another date with that boy.”  _ Don’t you fucking dare _ “Get your so-called experience.”  _ Don’t fuck him _ . “I don’t really care what you do.”  _ Yes I do. And if he so much as touches you I’ll rip his balls off _ . “Just… I need to go,” he repeated in a flurry of his mind yelling: get the hell out before you do something you’ll really, really, really regret.

           He didn’t look at her, couldn’t bear to. Petyr shuffled around the living room, trying to remember what he needed. His phone? That was in his pocket. His shoes? On. His...there was  _ something _ , he thought he was missing. But all Petyr could think was the awful, repeating mantra of  _ she’s a virgin, _ and  _ she’s practically begging me to take her _ .

_ Do it _ .

           Was he a coward? No. A coward would have taken Sansa already against her will. That first night, when she strode into his life with the scent of lemons and autumn air.

           Petyr was only a desperate, foolish man, if anything.

           “Sansa, dear? Can you come help me move the desk?”

           Petyr froze waiting for the elevator. In those minutes (how long was it?), he had forgotten about Kella. A wonderful woman, but still. Wouldn’t that be a sight? To be caught touching his niece, eating her out, in front of his housekeeper.  _ Fucking _ his niece. He could trust the older woman, yes, had for many, many years. But everyone had their limits. And Kella was almost as much a master at keeping secrets at Petyr was. 

_ If Kella wasn’t there… _ he reasoned, slamming the Close Door button over and over until he was alone. It wouldn’t fucking matter whether or not Kella had been here, because Petyr had forgotten she even existed.

           It was a flimsy excuse, if that.

_ If I didn’t have fucking Tywin to deal with… _ That was a better excuse. It was near nine-thirty already, and the walk would do wonders to ease both the hammering in his chest and the hardness in his pants. 

           But  _ experience _ . If that’s all Sansa wanted…

           Petyr wondered – and not for the first time, and certainly not for the last –  _ what _ sort of experience she was looking for. Kissing? Petyr would gladly show her that. Touching a man’s cock. Oh, very, very gladly. Being touched by a man. Being fucked by one.

           All he needed was a pretense. A lie. The disguise of a kind uncle helping out his darling niece. Oh, what a sight for the presses.

           Excuses and lies: that’s all he was good at, anyways.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [OKAY so I totally forgot about this chapter and the next, so I /do/ apologize for all the teasing, (but like, it’s so much fun tbh). BUT something good is definitely coming in the next chapter (and it’s probably gonna be Petyr lmao ;) )]


	8. sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I am a liar re: getting this up early (I /know/ I’m so sorry! but life). The good news though is that I’m back on schedule! 
> 
> And in case you had any doubts: this story is still trash! And we're all trash together for reading it!! ;D]

 

_ Stop him _ .

           Petyr’s hand rose slowly higher. She knew she  _ should _ stop him. They were related – not by blood, no. But by the tenuous thread that was Lysa Arryn née Tully. A thread snipped months ago, and whose grayed ends now wrapped around Sansa’s heart. At the  _ least _ she should stop Petyr’s hand roving higher and higher (inch by agonizing inch) not because they were (semi-)related, but because she was still  _ seventeen _ .

           It was wrong. In every account, viewed from any angle or through any skewed filter. Wrong. So very much wrong.

           There was a thought, though, a single one that echoed against the thrum of her heart and batted away the pervading thoughts of wrongness. Sansa shouldn’t listen to it. Shouldn’t let it’s vileness whisper its way through the haze of desire. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. But she did:  _ What if I don’t want him to stop? _

           “And what do  _ you _ want?”

           Her question hung in the space between them. The small space, hardly inches separating their bodies now. Petyr’s mouth twitched, like he barely managed to hold back his answer. 

_ What do you want _ , she asked him again in her mind.  _ Do you want me? _

           His body was moving on its own, moving to the rhythm in his imagination. Sansa saw how distant his gaze was now. Like he was trapped in his mind. What were they doing there? What was  _ he _ doing to her. Nothing good. Nothing at all remotely good.

_ This is wrong _ . The edge of the counter was biting into Sansa’s back, grounding her in reality. Which was: her uncle cornered her in his kitchen, and was moments away from taking her, here and now, like his brain was screaming at him to (it  _ had _ to be, of course. A mirror of the improper things running through her own imagination: nothing good. Nothing at all remotely good. Wrong, so wrong.)

           It took all her effort not to place her hands against his chest. Or throw them over his shoulders and  _ lean in _ to his closing movements. Or even thread through black-and-grey curls (as much as she couldn’t help but wonder how soft they were. They looked soft. And perfectly coiffed –  _ begging _ to be disheveled. By her fingers. As he kissed her. And as he…)

           Petyr’s hand trailed slowly up her thigh, skimming the bottom of the oversize sweater Kella loaned her. Sansa could feel the warmth of his fingers through the material, feel the heaviness of his fingers pushing against her leg. He grew closer to her, close enough that Sansa felt the brush of his need against her thigh.

_ This is it _ , she thought.

           He leaned in and out, his need grazing against her, growing harder with each passing moment. His face was close. His hand digging into her thigh. She closed her eyes. Sansa could barely hear the wicked things her mind was saying over the beating of her heart.

           “Petyr…” The word came out on its own, a breathy sigh. A pent-up reaction from the pulsing ache between her legs. From Petyr’s ache, pressed against her.  _ How far is he going to go? _ she wondered. Sansa could taste the mint coming off of his own breaths, mixing with the subtle cleanness of aftershave and cologne. It was a  _ good _ smell, she realized. She wondered if he could smell her, too: the soap she used at Kella’s, the lingering perfume from her date, the building need between her legs…

           Did he like the way she smelled? Would he like the way she  _ tasted _ ?

           But Petyr blinked, a sharp intake of breath the only sound or movement. He came back to reality. Came back to realize how high his hand had moved up her leg, how close he was – and Sansa couldn’t help to continue that vile, wicked whisper that echoed in her mind.  _ Would he have continued if I didn’t stop him _ .

           She wouldn’t know, of course. 

           It was only a few seconds, in truth, but it felt like a lifetime passed in those breaths. Like both of them revealed deep, dark secrets about themselves; like they had spread open the skin of their chests and shown the other their very souls. 

           Black as pitch. How else could someone like Sansa – with these wicked thoughts and desires, who was very much promised to another man whilst caving under some lewd desire for her  _ uncle _ – describe her soul. 

           Petyr’s was too. Of that, she was sure. 

           “I’m not supposed to…” he uttered, so quietly Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if it was part of her imagination. Because hadn’t her own mind been saying those exact words to her, too?  _ I’m not supposed to feel like this. I’m not supposed to want my uncle. I’m not supposed to catch the eye of someone who isn’t my betrothed _ . But it wasn’t part of her imagination. The words hung between them, heavy with truth and longing. 

_ I’m not supposed to… _ “...to what?” she whispered. Hoping (and perhaps dreading) the vocalization of the truth, of reality. 

           Petyr cleared his throat, taking a single step back. The chasm created felt a lot bigger than a couple of feet. Still: darkness clouded his gaze. He wasn’t  _ looking _ at her, not really. Perhaps Petyr was still trying to drag himself back from the wicked things his own mind concocted. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m...I’m supposed to be at work.”

           Sansa watched him flex his fingers. 

           “Go on another date with that boy,” he continued, taking another step out of the kitchen, as if trying his best to remember what he was doing before Sansa showed up. Moved about the living room, looking for  _ something _ , but also not really looking for anything. Waved his hand at Sansa as he said, “Get your so-called experience. I don’t really care what you do.”  _ Don’t you? _ She thought, a sharp stab slicing through her ribs. “Just… I need to go.”

           He headed for the elevator, slamming the button. Staring at it, feeling the rumble of the car rising beneath his feet. Oh, wasn’t this a sight too common: her standing flustered in their (his, she reminded herself, this wasn’t her home) kitchen, Petyr anxiously waiting for the elevator to whisk him away. But she couldn’t help but wonder whether him going away was for Sansa’s sanity, or his.

           “Sansa, dear? Can you come help me move the desk?”

           Petyr slipped through the doors. She stood there, listening to the rumble of the elevator descend. Her heart rumbled in her chest, a ceaseless, pounding thing that wouldn’t quiet, no matter how many breaths she took. 

_ Gods, what’s wrong with me? _ A question Sansa repeated to herself over and over these past few days. A question that echoed in the beating of her heart.

           She took her heels off, a chill rushing up her feet. Sansa headed towards the sound of Kella’s voice, thankful for the much-needed distraction. She wasn’t sure  _ what _ exactly she would do were she alone with these wicked thoughts and a frantic heart. And a devilish thrumming between her legs whispering all sorts of vile things to her.

           “What do you need help with?” she said, turning in the threshold of the study. 

           “This, dear,” Kella said, motioning to the solid wood desk that she stood beside. Sansa glanced about the room – the boxes were stacked on one side of the room, and the dust once clinging to the window shades was gone – as she moved to the other side of the desk. WIth a  _ one two three _ they hoisted it a few inches above the ground. It leaned down towards the housekeeper, but they managed to maneuver it over enough. It fell with a resounding  _ thud _ on the carpet.

           “Oof,” Kella said with a heaving breath, leaning against the desk. “I forgot how heavy that thing was. Thanks, Sansa.”

           Sansa smiled. “Of course. Do you need help with anything else?”

           The woman nodded, waving her hand about the room. “If you don’t mind. You know you don’t actually need to help me, you know? You’re a guest after all.”

           She knew, but this would be a lot better than being alone with her thoughts. “It’s fine, I don’t mind. I rather like cleaning.”

           “Good for you,” Kella said with a wry laugh. “But, since you’re in a helpful mood. Petyr wants all of this stuff out by the month’s end, and it wouldn’t hurt me, or I guess  _ us _ , to get a head start. I’m sure he told you you could take whatever of your aunt’s you want?” Sansa nodded. “Good. And since he’ll be leaving tonight – I think? – I figured it’s a good as time as any to start figuring out what in the seven hells is in here.”

           That gave Sansa pause, though she wish she knew why she  _ cared _ . “Oh. He’s leaving?”

           Kella nodded with an  _ mm-hmm, _ as if the news as ordinary. Which it might as well have been. Sansa knew Petyr was constantly busy with work. Business trips were obvious. So why  _ did _ she care? This was  _ good _ , wasn’t it? His uncouth gaze, and fingers, and thoughts… Petyr being gone for a couple days would – should – be a blessing. 

           Sansa tried to ask with as much of an  _ I don’t really care but I’ll be polite and ask about it _ aura. “Do you know how long he’ll be gone for? Or where he’s going?”

           The woman shrugged. “Can’t say, dear. He’s always out and about on trips. Though, he hasn’t been since Robert passed away, the poor thing. And then Lysa… But I’m sure Lannister has been itching to get Petyr back out doing what he does best. With any luck he won’t be gone more than a few days.”

_ Interesting _ .

           They worked together in silence, shuffling boxes to each wall of the room based on what was in it: Robert’s things went to the wall beside the window, Lysa’s to the wall opposite. There were a fair amount of boxes with papers and folders from old cases (or so Sansa gleaned just from looking in real quick). And a few others with miscellaneous things. All those went on the last wall, and it was a towering heap. The bookshelves remained untouched, though they were crammed with more books and folders and work things. Sansa went ahead and dusted the higher shelves. 

           By then, Kella asked, “Are you ready to talk about your date?”

           Sansa had called Kella last night after Harry dropped her off. Kella was kind enough to pick her up and offer her modest apartment for the night (Kella even offered to swing by a coffee shop, but Sansa declined. She couldn’t help but wonder if the period lie was true, but her underwear was clean). The older woman was kinder, still, in letting Sansa ruminate in silence on all of the things that had happened in the restaurant.

           But Kella could only wait for gossip for so long. The only thing that kept Sansa from spilling everything (well, there was more than one reason) was the fact that she didn’t know how closely Kella kept secrets to her chest. Was it Kella who told Petyr about Sansa’s date at the restaurant (at Kella’s recommendation, too. Harry asked her what sort of food she would have liked, and Sansa offered up some of the places the housekeeper recommended. Granted, Harry made the final decision, and who knows how long Petyr had his fuck-date (it was, of course. Sansa  _ smelt _ the lingering headiness of what he and that woman had done the moment she stepped out of the elevator doors. Sansa tried not to let her imagination wonder about  _ where _ they did it, and how many times, and how Petyr preferred to take a woman). Still. The coincidence was too blatant for Sansa to dismiss.

           Sansa moved to the other side of the desk, trailing her fingers over the clean surface. “Kel. If I tell you about my date,” she began, tracing a knot in the wood. “Then you have to tell me something about Petyr.”

           Kella laughed at that, a reaction Sansa hadn’t been expecting. “Quid pro quo… You sure you two aren’t  _ actually _ related?” she said with a shrewd smile. 

           Sansa tried to ignore the comment, but it sent (what? She wasn’t sure she knew exactly) a bit of lightness through her. “Is that a yes?”

           “Yes, yes. But you go first.”

_ That’s fair _ . So Sansa told the housekeeper the brief of her date last night, opting not to disclose exactly what she had let Harry do to her, or what Myranda did to Petyr. Sansa had wondered whether to tell Kella about Petyr’s own date, and figured it couldn’t be something the woman didn’t already know. 

           She was right about that. “I haven’t met Myranda yet, is she a looker?”

           “I...guess?” Sansa didn’t really care to talk about her uncle’s date. And especially didn’t care to talk about how she leaned into him, or rubbed her leg against his, or stared at him all night with a look of  _ I’m going to fuck you senseless _ . Which she (or he) did.

           “So Harry was a no-go?”

           “He just… Yeah.”

           “At least you tried it out,” Kella reasoned. They had stopped cleaning now, leaning on either side of the desk. The window was open, letting in the chill winter air. Sansa could faintly hear (or thought she could) the sound of waves crashing in the distance. “Was it the fact that he just wanted sex that made you say ‘no’? Or 

_ It’s because 1) I’m engaged and 2) I couldn’t keep my thoughts away from my uncle _ . “I suppose. I think he just wasn’t my type. Though I’m worried he won’t take no for an answer.”

           “Ah,” the housekeeper muttered, as if she had her own slew of men who didn’t understand what  _ No _ meant. “Has he messaged you yet?”

           Sansa checked her phone. He  _ had _ , sending her a few texts last night. They weren’t creepy, but his persistence was...a bother. “Unfortunately?”

           Kella laughed. “It’s up to you, really, whether to end it or not. But if you do, tell him as soon as possible. Boys like that will hound you for  _ forever _ . I just hope he’s not too eager to bed you.” She said it with a disgusted face. Like she definitely had too many of those in her own past.

           Talking about it helped. And didn’t. Because Sansa still had so many lies weighing her down. Her engagement (of which, Sansa needed to reply to Margaery. There was so much left to do, and she still needed to get Willas her wedding gift. Margaery kept dangling what Willas got Sansa, but never gave Sansa more than a “You’ll see~”). Her unreliable heart. 

           Sansa shook those away. “Thanks. Now it’s your turn, if you don’t mind.”

           Kella moved to sit on the edge of the desk, stretching her legs out. “Fine, fine. What’s your question?” She looked at her watch. “And make it quick, I’ve a doctor’s appointment in a bit.”

           Sansa chewed on her bottom lip, wondering if she could weedle out more information later. They had a bond now, however small. Not to mention Sansa knew it was always easier to get people to open up if she told them truths first. 

           Such as: “How was my uncle’s relationship with Lysa?”

           Kella stared at her. “That’s bit of a loaded question, dear.”

           “That’s why I’m asking you, and not Petyr.”

           The corner of Kella’s mouth twitched up, but she didn’t let the smile overtake her. Sighed. “The  _ truth _ , then. I’ll make it short and sweet. Their relationship was…not uncommon around here. Half the people in King’s Landing hate their partner, though those people are the ones running the businesses and like.  _ Normal _ folks like me, eh, we’re fine. But Petyr and Lysa got along well enough, to the public. He wasn’t mean or abusive or any of that. He just...didn’t care too much. About her, or little Robert. Though between you and me, he seemed to like the boy a lot more when Lysa wasn’t around.”

           And that was that. Kella rebraided her hair, tucking in the flyaways behind her ears. 

           There were truths Kella was holding back on, that was obvious. But Sansa worried that asking for those would need payment on her end. And the secrets Sansa had to offer...well, those she would prefer not to share. “Ah. Thank you.”

           “Of course. Now, I’ve got to go,” Kella said, grunting as she lifted herself off the table. Her knees cracked as she stood. Before she left, she turned to Sansa, holding up a finger. “Now, dear, don’t go telling Petyr about none of that. Or, at least not where you heard it from.”

           Sansa motioned zipping her lips. “Of course, Kel.”

           The woman gave her a wink. “Clever girl.” 

           And Sansa was alone again. 

           She thought about flipping through the boxes and seeing what exactly her aunt had left after her death. But the idea wasn’t very exciting. Nor was the idea of just sitting around doing nothing all day. Harry’s messages were still left unanswered, and Sansa knew she should reply back.

           Her phone read  _ 9:45 _ . There was too much time left in the day. Too much time, and too many thoughts.

           Sansa hated her feet for walking herself back to the kitchen. That she found herself pressing her stomach against the counter she had been had hardly an hour ago. If she closed her eyes, Sansa could see Petyr. His own eyes heady with the thoughts clouding his mind. A wicked smile turning up one corner of his mouth.

           And in her imagination, Petyr’s hands weren’t clutched against the counter’s edge. Nor did they stop just beneath the sweater.

           She imagined her fingers to be his, and let herself sink down into the darkness of her mind.

_ And what do you want _ , she asked him.

_ You. Haven’t I made it obvious? _ he said. Closing in on her. There was nowhere to run.

           She snaked her hand beneath the waistband of the sweats, trailing her fingers against her mound, up and down her inner thighs. Teasing herself. Imagining her fingers to be his. 

           In her head, she heard herself say to him:  _ Please. _

           Sansa slowly dipped one finger between her lips, sighing as she sunk in all the way. Slowly she rolled her hips against her finger, moving faster and faster with each pass. Sansa moved her free hand beneath the sweatshirt to clutch a breast, toying with the nipple that was already hard.

_ You like that, don’t you? _

_ Yes _ . Her breaths were long and hot, mirroring the in and out of her finger and the twirl of her hips.

           Petyr leaned against her, the hardness of his need pressed against her ass. He didn’t reign in modesty now – moving his hips against her own.  _ Can you feel that _ , she heard him say, his mouth next to her ear.  _ That’s what you do to me, Sansa.  _

           Sansa gasped. Her fingers rolled against her clit, finding the perfect rhythm that sent her heart beating faster and faster.

_ Oh sweetling, _ he cooed into her ear. She could smell the faintest whiff of mint on his breath, mixed with the headiness of her need. And his.  _ You know we shouldn’t do this. It’s wrong. So, so wrong... _

           Sansa replied back, through her breathless gasps (she was so close now, nothing existed save the roll of her fingers inside her and the wicked image of Petyr, his blackened eyes and sinful words, the feel of his hand against her thigh):  _ I know. But it feels so good _ .

           There was a  _ ding _ at the elevator.

           Sansa jumped. She hadn’t heard the telltale rumble of the car rising, too lost in her fantasy to know anything else. She brushed away her need on the sweatpants (no luck giving them back to Kella). Tried to calm her ragged breaths. Smashing her hair down, running her hands under the faucet and splashing her bright-red cheeks with cold water. All the while wondering whether Kella had forgotten something. Or Petyr.

           The last thought sent a spark throughout her. It shouldn’t have.

           The doors slid open and – no. Not Petyr. Or Kella, for that matter. It was someone Sansa didn’t recognize: a boy with blond hair and lightly tanned skin. The suit he wore was impeccable, though a little wrinkled at his joints. Short strands of his hair stood up, despite his best efforts to flatten them. A robber, maybe, though fancily dressed for one.

           “Oh!” the boy startled, noticing her peeking up above the counter. “By the Seven, you nearly gave me a heart attack…”

           She wondered if she looked as mad as she felt. Were her cheeks still as red as her hair? Redder, likely, from the embarrassment of nearly being caught. What if she hadn’t heard the  _ ding _ . What if some poor boy walked in on her pleasuring herself, to the imagination that it was her own gods-damned uncle? 

           She was in too deep. 

           Sansa couldn’t help her manners, even in her nearly-caught-touching-myself embarrassment. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to.”

           He waved it off, laughing. “No, no it’s fine. I should have knocked.” Winked at her playfully, though Sansa didn’t take it as such. A few seconds passed before he snapped his fingers. “Ah, right. You’re the niece, aren’t ya?”

           Sansa furrowed her brows. If he was a robber, he had an odd way about it. 

           He must have caught on to Sansa’s train of thought, raising his hands up in an  _ I’m innocent _ gesture. “Sorry, my bad. I’m Mr Baelish’s assistant. Well, intern assistant. Still. But he left some paperwork and sent me running here to go pick it up. I’ll be outta here real quick!”

           As he darted for the hall, Sansa blurted out, “What’s your name?”

           He shot her a smile made of perfect teeth. There was a single dimple on his left cheek. “Olyvar. And sorry if I’ve forgotten your name…?”

           Sansa lifted her left hand for him. Answered, “Sansa,” as he shook it, though awkwardly. He wasn’t left-handed either (it was a small courtesy not to shake a stranger’s hand with the fingers that were just working to make her come seconds before).

           “Nice to meet you. Now, let me see if I can find that folder…”

           Olyvar rushed through the hall, and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if Petyr had left work files here before. He must have, since Olyvar returned with a small manila folder, flipping through the sheets. 

           Though Petyr likely hadn’t forgotten files before because he was too busy  _ not _ taking his niece in the kitchen.

           “Hey, Olyvar,” she began, and cursed herself for the idea that bloomed in her head.

           He turned to her, finger trailing over the elevator button. They were manicured. “Yes?”

           Was she going to regret this? Probably. 

           But Sansa couldn’t stop feeling the ghosts of Petyr’s fingers riding up her thigh. Trailing around her core, and inside it. Fondling her breasts. The way he looked at her, ravenous. The way her body  _ ached _ for those stilled fingers to rise higher – and work over her, inside her.

_ There’s something wrong with me _ . Sansa knew that already, true.  _ But gods if this doesn’t feel… _ What? Not  _ right _ , of course (a niece egging on her uncle for uncouth actions? There was no universe in which that was  _ right _ ).  _ Good _ . But the same turmoil with  _ Right _ . A niece (and an underage girl at that, she reminded herself, her birthday just over a week away now) should not be feeling  _ good _ about being touched by someone at least twice her age. 

           She felt...something. Something that was decidedly right and good – but for reasons that weren’t.

           Sansa gave Olyvar the sweetest smile she could, even sweeter than the ones she gave Harry. Olyvar (being obviously not into her, but knowing his manners) smiled back. “Would it be alright if I go with you? I won’t be in King’s Landing long, and I’m curious where my uncle works, since he’s never home.”

           The boy only smiled back at her, oblivious (she hoped) to her motivations. “Sure thing. Though I’m in a bit of a rush. Mr Baelish has a meeting in–" he checked is watch. Silently swore. "–eleven minutes.”

           Sansa glanced down at the sweats she borrowed from Kella (“They’re old and don’t fit me right anymore,” the woman said. “You might as well keep ‘em. Or throw ‘em away, gods know I will eventually.”) Back up to Olyvar, another sickly sweet smile. “Of course. Give me two seconds to change.”

* * *

           “And over there I once saw a lady squat down in the middle of the street and just shit.”

           Sansa half-laughed, half-gagged. “Oh gods…”

           “Yeah. I know.” Olyvar scrunched his face, as if that horrid memory was happening right now. (Of which, Sansa wouldn’t be surprised if it  _ was. _ at least in a different street. The center of King’s Landing was an interesting place, so unlike her home for the past several years. Highgarden had its bouts of unusual and odd, of course, but  _ this _ topped anything her and Margaery had run across).

           Speaking of interesting: Olyvar was an interesting boy (he couldn’t be more than a handful of years older than her, maybe as old as Harry was), but not once did he stare at her like Harry had. Of course, it was painfully obvious Olyvar wasn’t interested in Sansa. Sansa wondered if the boy would have been Loras’ type.

           They took the subway, only because they were short on time, and thankfully it hadn’t been too crowded this late in the morning. The gods were on their side, too, when it pulled up just as they got to the platform.

           Olyvar checked his watch every three seconds (give or take). He was in a rush, and Sansa didn’t mind keeping up with him. She wisely chose to wear flats, and a simple dress beneath a cardigan Kella helped her pick out. There hadn’t been time to do her makeup or fix her hair more than toss it up into a loose bun. Sansa pulled loose strands on either side of her face, hoping to make it a  _ look _ .

           “Here we are,” Olyvar said, opening the door for Sansa. She thanked him, following behind as he navigated their way through to the elevator. Sansa wished the officer a good morning.

           It wasn’t until the doors closed and Sansa watched the numbers steadily rise up did it finally hit her:  _ this is so foolish _ .

           “I need to go run these to Mr Baelish,” Olyvar said as they rose up higher and higher, checking his watch again. It was one minute to ten, and her heart was racing. Because of how quickly they walked, she told herself. “But wait for me in the lobby and I’ll give you a quick tour of the office? I don’t  _ think _ his meeting should be long, but…” He simultaneously rolled his eyes and shrugged. Sansa laughed, though didn’t quite understand the meaning of it.

           “That’s fine,” she said, though it wasn’t. She wanted to come here for him. And if she had to wait, Sansa wasn’t sure if the butterflies wreaking havoc in her stomach would return. She could already feel the flutter of their wings brushing up against her insides.

           “Good. Be right back!” Olyvar jogged out of the doors the moment they slid open. She listened to the patter of his footsteps fade away.

           Sansa stepped out of the car. Right in front of her was a massive steel letterwork of  _ Lannister & Baratheon _ plated in gold. It shone in the hall lights. Sansa saw her distorted self in the reflection.

           The butterflies returned. And not just because of Petyr, but because of the name. Lannister & Baratheon. She should have  _ known _ Petyr worked for them.

_ You can do this _ , she told herself. Steeling herself with a single, long breath. Praying she wouldn’t run into either.

           The lobby was huge, glistening tiles and modern furniture lining the area. No one sat at the reception desk, though she could hear the chatter and movement of people beyond. On the wall was the company logo again, set atop a faint silhouette of a stag and lion.

           “Aren’t you a cute thing…?”

           Sansa turned. A  _ Sorry _ already forming in her throat (it was a natural reaction, to anything and everything). Only, it caught in her throat, leaving her mouth open.

           It was  _ her _ . The woman from last night. And from the first night Sansa stepped into her uncle’s life.

           She wore a simple black dress that was borderline scandalous (was that all she had?) Her breasts were covered, but the fit of the dress did nothing to hide how big they were. Her face was done with heavy eyeshadow. Heavy brown curls framed her face. She could have been a movie star in another life. Sansa wasn’t entirely convinced she wasn’t – how could someone that pretty work in a law firm?

           The woman cocked her head, slanting her eyes. As if she was trying to remember Sansa. She did eventually, snapping fingers. The nails were painted bright red. “Oh! You’re his niece, right?”

           Sansa had shut her mouth, and didn’t want to open it again, afraid the butterflies would fly out of it. Thank the gods they didn’t. “Yes. I’m, um, visiting his office. With Olyvar. I was just curious where he worked, is all…”  _ And if I had known I would run into you... _

           The woman approached, her heels clacking on the tiles. She offered a hand and a devilishly sweet smile. Her lips were painted red, too, though a fraction muted than nails. “I’m Myranda. Sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

_ So Petyr has talked to her about me. How much else has he said. How much else has this woman taken from him _ . Sansa didn’t know where this jealousy came from. It was the same burning thing from last night. The same thing that (were she a lesser woman) would have sent her fist colliding into that perfectly-painted face. But, Sansa couldn’t forget her manners, taking the woman’s hand and offering her her own practiced smile. It felt a lot different than the ones she gave to Olyvar hardly minutes earlier. “I’m Sansa. Nice to meet you.”

           “ _ Sansa _ ,” Myranda said, as if testing it out. She licked her lips, letting another smile hang on them. Sansa didn’t like that. “What a pretty name. And you’re so much prettier than her, too.”

_ Her? _ “Oh, you mean my aunt?”

           Myranda nodded. “I don’t think she ever was as pretty as you. Loud, yes, and definitely not ever too proud to say what was on her mind.” She laughed at some memory or other. “Oh, my condolences.” She added that as an afterthought to an afterthought. Sansa wondered if  _ anyone _ truly loved Lysa Arryn. Which (though it shouldn’t have, not after what she put her siblings through) made her sad.

           “Thanks,” Sansa said, suddenly wishing (again) to be left alone.

           “A pity you’re his niece though.”

           Sansa couldn’t feign the confusion that crossed her own face. This woman was not someone to be taken lightly, she realized. “Why?”

           Myranda leaned in, that horrid smile still turning her lips. Sansa hated it. “Oh, because I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you.”

           Ice filtered through Sansa’s veins.  _ Does she know _ . The butterflies multiplied, until they filled every possible crevice inside her.  _ How does she know _ .  _ What did she see. What did Petyr say. Does she know and how and why and- _

           “But–" the woman began, leaning in so close Sansa felt drowned by her perfume. It smelled of flowers and vanilla. "–between you and me, Petyr much prefers a girl who knows what she’s doing. Though I do hope you had fun on your date last night?”

           Sansa clenched a fist, feeling her nails dig deep into the palm of her hand. It was all she could do to bring herself back from the cold grip of fear. Of  _ course _ Myranda didn’t know. Of course. She was just saying things to rile Sansa up. Yes. Of course. “It was fine.” Sansa didn’t feel like offering up anything more, even asking back  _ How was your date _ .

           Sansa knew, from the way Petyr’s bedsheets were tossed. From the way this woman was smiling at her. 

           Footsteps echoed off the tiles, though Sansa could barely hear them over the roar in her head.

           “Oh, it’s you. Finished with your errand?” Myranda said lazily.

           Sansa blinked. Twice. The ice melted, slowly, a fraction. She felt like throwing up.

           It was Olyvar who replied, “I have. Made it in the nick of time, thank the gods.” He glanced at Sansa when she looked at him, and smiled. Back to Myranda, he said, “Don’t you have  _ actual  _ work to do today? With the Yonson’s trial? I don’t think they pay you to sit around looking pretty...”

           “I’m sure that’s what they keep you for,” Myranda laughed. “Oh fine, keep Sansa to yourself then. See you later,” she said with a wink. Sansa felt the butterflies in her stomach recoil at that. She watched the woman saunter away, her hips swaying unnecessarily. Her heels too high, too, or so Sansa thought.

           “What a piece of work she is, isn’t she…” Olyvar murmured. He clapped his hands. “But never mind her. Your uncle’s in a meeting right now, hopefully he’ll be out by ten thirty. In the meantime, you still up for that tour?”

           Sansa dragged herself back from the jealousy and fear at running into  _ the other woman _ . It felt so...cliche, thinking Myranda as that. Since Myranda wasn’t the one with taboos. Since Myranda was the one who already staked her claim into Petyr.

           Still. She smiled again, hoping Olyvar didn’t catch anything amiss. “Sure. Show me around.”

           The office was bigger than she was expecting, taking up the whole of the floor. There were different departments based on the types of casework or job, and Sansa asked not to be introduced as Petyr’s niece (she  _ should  _ have, she thought, because telling everyone of the relation would help cement the wrongness in why she was here), and rather as a friend of Olyvar’s from college. Most people didn’t care one way or the other, she felt. They were busy enough that they could only say a simple  _ Hello _ before going back to calls or flipping through books. Only two or three people asked about her: are you going to KLU, and how did you and Olyvar become friends, and are you looking for an internship right now. Basic pleasantries.

           “Let’s see if he’s out yet…” Olyvar said as they finished the circuit and wandered towards the conference rooms. There were several, all of which were set up against the wall. Sansa could see the hazy shape of neighboring buildings through the fogged glass.

           “Oh, perfect!” he said after dipping his head past one of the smaller rooms. To Sansa, he said, “Looks like they finished already. Mr Baelish is still in there, if you want me to tell you you’re here?”

           The butterflies’ onslaught was murderous.  _ Go before he knows you’re here _ , they were yelling at her.  _ Go before you regret it _ . “No, it’s fine, I think I’ll surprise him.” She bit her lip, hiding a smile. “Thank you so much, Olyvar. You make a wonderful tour guide.” He laughed at that with a half-confused  _ Thanks _ . Waved him goodbye. She was so thankful Olyvar was Petyr’s assistant and not Myranda. Gods knew what sort of terrible things Sansa would imagine him and his fuck-date doing if they worked so close together (it was difficult not to think of her as that. For all Sansa knew, maybe the other woman really was a good person. But...likely not). Sansa shook her head.

           Turned towards the conference room. Inhaled a single long, deep breath.  _ Now or never _ .

           Never was looking very enticing, with each step she took towards the room. The elevators were just over there – hardly a sprint to them, and back down to the lobby, and out of the office before Petyr ever knew she was here.

           The sound of glass beneath her rapping knuckles sounded so much louder than it should have been. Petyr looked up from writing notes down. There were a few folders lying on the dark wood conference table. The TV monitor was on but not plugged in. Two chairs opposite Petyr were askew. 

           A crease formed between his eyes. “Sansa… You…?”

_ Something _ urged her to close the door. To lock it. Turn the blinds completely closed (slowly, so no one outside would notice. Sansa watched the neighboring conference rooms fade away into slits, and then into nothing). 

           She turned back to him. He had been staring at her all the while, the pen in his hand motionless. “Sansa…?”

           “Hi.” She managed. It sounded weak, pathetic. But it was much better than unleashing the hundreds of butterflies wreaking havoc inside her.

_ What in seven hells are you doing? _

           “Hi…” he repeated, still trying to figure out how and why his niece appeared at his work. Slow blinks. 

           “I,” Sansa began, leaning against the door. She knotted her fingers in the hem of her dress behind her back.  _ Courage _ , she told herself. Hoping thinking it would will it into her voice. “I was curious where you work, since you’re always busy. And, um, Olyvar swung by the apartment. To pick up the folder. And I asked if I could come along, and he said yes. And then whilst you were in your meeting he showed me around the office – it’s very nice. And now… Hi.” She was rambling, she knew, but the words wouldn’t stop once they started.

           Petyr dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair. It  _ squeaked  _ from the movement. “I see.”

           Silence filled the air. In it, Sansa heard his unspoken question of  _ Why are you here? _ The truth of it – not this rambling excuse of a lie.

           She took in another deep breath. Stepped towards him, one step. Another. Pressing her legs against the side of the conference table. Petyr didn’t move. Even his gaze; he managed to keep it glued to her own. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if everything was a lie, all that he had done and said (and thought). But, no. Petyr’s hand was gripping the edge of his thigh, hard. As if to control himself. Sansa bit back the smile. “I was thinking about what you said earlier.”

           He blinked, trying to remember the conversation they had just this morning. Were the wicked thoughts in his mind clouding the truth? Sansa hoped so. “And what about it was so urgent you had to discuss it  _ here _ instead of waiting?”

           She licked her lips. She hoped (prayed) that the harshness in his tone wasn’t directed  _ at _ her, but at the fact that this was reckless. That they could be  _ caught _ . “Because you won’t be home tonight. Kella says you’re going away, and I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

           Was that too desperate? She hoped not. But Sansa saw the twitch of his lips. Good. “Alright, Sansa. And what did you need to tell me?”

_ You can still back out now _ . Yes. But, she was so focused on the grip of his hand, on the way his words were slow. Petyr was close, too. Sansa wondered – hoped, and thrilled  _ just a bit _ – at the prospect of breaking him.

           She shook her head. No, she didn’t want to  _ tell _ him anything. Sansa worked her fingers around the hem of her dress, and Petyr’s gaze finally shifted to watch. 

           “What are you…” Petyr began.

           Sansa smiled down at him. Tilting her head just a fraction. “You wanted to see it earlier…” she trailed off. Her fingers gripped either side of the front of her dress, and slowly, began hitching it up along her thighs.

           Petyr’s breath caught, his chest stopped moving. Sansa lowered her gaze down to between his legs – she wondered whether it was a trick of the light, or the sight of her, that toyed with the front of his slacks. Up she dragged the dress, a quick movement that revealed half her thighs. 

           “I’m your  _ uncle _ , sweetling,” he said finally, reaching out to stop her hand. His grip was strong, warm. It shouldn’t have sent a shiver between her legs, but it did. Though Sansa couldn’t help to think it was to reassure himself, and not her. “I’m not supposed to want to see it.”

           Her breath caught in her throat, but Sansa managed to push the question out. She batted her lashes down at him, pouting her lips. “So, you  _ want _ to see all of me?”

           Petyr shook his head – a mistake of words on his part, definitely – though his eyes… No matter how desperately Petyr tried to shake the idea (and how  _ sinful _ were the images in his mind? As bad as the ones that began creeping into Sansa’s an hour ago as she touched herself in his kitchen?), no matter how urgently she could tell Petyr wanted to be rid of this similar desire… Petyr’s eyes remained on her. On the join of her neck, the collar of her dress, where the fabric ended on her thighs.

           Sansa couldn’t draw her gaze away from Petyr’s. She  _ felt _ the desire in each sweep of his eyes. Burning burning burning, searing a path upon her skin. It was an effort not to trace the motion of his gaze with her fingers.

           He managed to swallow, to tear his gaze (finally) back up to hers. Shook his head one more time, a small movement. “You’re seventeen, Sansa. You’re not even  _ legal _ . You should remember that, before you go offering yourself to strangers.”

           There it was again. That jealousy that set him on her this morning. Was this all because of Harry? Because of an innocent little date?

           No. Of course not – there had always been  _ more _ to it. 

           “You’re not a stranger,” she countered. 

           “But you  _ are _ a minor,” he counter-countered.

           That was true. And being in the offices of a law firm didn’t instill in Sansa the fear that it should have. It made the truth of her age...sinful.

           She licked her lips. Gently tugged at her hand to make him let go. He did (hoping that she would finally realize how reckless this is?). She took a step back, just one this time. 

           “What are you doing?” he growled, and it echoed throughout her chest. Just like last night.

_ What am I doing? _ Sansa asked herself, lifting her dress an inch higher. Another. All the while watching – staring, really – as Petyr’s eyes followed the hem up. As anxious as she was (and nervous, and terrified, and exhilarated), Sansa knew her uncle was feeling the same. Or his own amalgamation of wracking thoughts: was Petyr yelling at himself to  _ Stop _ , too? Was Petyr yelling at Sansa to  _ Stop _ just as much as he was yelling  _ For the love of the Seven go faster? _

           If he wanted her to stop, truly, he would have already. If he didn’t  _ want _ her, if that ache between his legs wasn’t at the sight of his niece baring herself for him – well, then Petyr was a liar.

           Sansa licked her lips. She wondered… “Tell me to stop, Petyr.” Another inch up. There wasn’t much left of the dress. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

           Playing with fire. Oh, how she was definitely going to get burned.

           But that look. That look, that fire within Petyr’s eyes as he momentarily moved from her thighs up to meet her own gaze. A fire that would burn and burn and burn.  _ Don’t play with fire _ , came a thought that might have been her mother’s, or father’s, or Madame Nysterica’s. Or any one of the infinite people in her life that wanted Sansa to be perfect. To be good. Always good, always perfect. Always.

_ Or else you’ll get burned _ .

           One more inch, and the dress barely covered the join of her thighs. Sansa’s heart hammered in her chest. Her breasts hurt – because of  _ anticipation _ . Because they  _ yearned _ to be touched, by the man standing in front of her.  _ Touch me _ , she asked him in her mind.  _ Touch me like you wanted to.  _ By those hands (were his fingers always that long?), one on his thigh and the other on the armrest of the chair. His knuckles were white. His need hard and plain between his legs.

           Up those final inches. Sansa wore the lingerie she had bought for Harry – white silk, patterned whorls covering skin where lace didn’t. They were wet, from this  _ game _ she played with Petyr, and from her vile fantasy earlier. 

           “You wanted to see it, right Petyr?” she trilled, well aware of the heaviness of her uncle’s stare. She clutched the fabric of her dress with one hand and let her other trail up her leg, from where she could still feel the ghost of his fingers earlier. Only, Sansa didn’t let hers stop where his had. “You wanted to  _ touch _ it. Right?”

           Something escaped Petyr’s lips: not quite a growl, but Sansa didn’t know what else it  _ could _ have been. The sight of her, of what she was wearing, of how  _ wet _ she was. Petyr trailed his hand from his thigh and pressed it against his aching cock. Stroked it, slowly, trying to ease what Sansa had done to him. 

           A spark laced through Sansa’s ribs, causing her heart to beat frantically. 

           “You need to  _ stop _ , sweetling,” he said. Even though Sansa didn’t stop moving her fingers towards her core. Nor did Petyr stop running his hand languidly up and down his need. Did that help, touching himself like that? Or did that just make it worse?

           Sansa reached the silk and lace, tucking the tip of a finger beneath the fabric. Petyr’s hand froze for a second – his breath, too, and his eyes, glued to where her hand was teasing with the underwear.

           “If you want me to stop,” she began, dipping her finger further into the silk. It was so wet, Sansa wondered if Petyr could see it. Could see what this game, what  _ Petyr _ , did to her. “Then stop me.”

           He didn’t. Not when Sansa trailed her finger along her slit, or as she circled her opening, or even as she finally, slowly, pushed her finger inside her.

           Petyr sat there, touching himself, watching as Sansa slid her fingers in and out of her. Imagining all the while they were his.

           She bit her lip to keep from gasping. Gods knew what this did to her. She was so close already. Sansa was rocking her hips into the movement, even if she tried not to. She couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help the growing ache that squeezed against her finger. Couldn’t help the hammering of her heart, or the lightness in her head. Couldn’t help the weight of Petyr’s gaze on her, never once moving away from the sight of her pleasuring herself. 

           So close, so close – but Sansa stopped herself. ( _ Don’t _ her body cried out). It took all her effort to slide out of herself. But  _ gods _ if it didn’t feel infinitely better here: touching herself in a place where she could be caught. Petyr watching her. She watching him. Neither of them truly satisfied with their own hands (she thought). But neither of them willing to cross that final boundary between barely-proper and absolutely-wicked. At least, not yet. 

           There was still time. 

           “Here,  _ uncle _ ,” she said, plastering the stickiest, sweetest smile onto her lips (one that would make even that other woman – Myranda – jealous). She slid the soaked garment down her legs, shivering at their loss, all the while watching him. Realization dawning on his face. Sansa gently tossed the garment onto his lap.

           “What are you-?” Petyr began, swiping away the underwear into his pocket. Hiding the  _ damning _ proof of his desire, and hers. Their shared sin.

           The smile tugged the corner of her lips higher. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if she still looked the sweet little  _ innocent _ thing, or a devil. Maybe a bit of both. “It’s a gift. Unless you don’t want it…?”

           Petyr shook his head. His eyes were so dark still. And his own need – he hadn’t come, either. But at least she gave him a  _ delicious _ image for the next time he touched himself. She wondered how long he would last.

           “Have fun on your trip.” Sansa’s voice rang. She left the conference room without looking back. Down the elevators, down to the lobby, and through the streets of King’s Landing. It was brisker than on her journey here, and Sansa was careful to keep her dress down from showing the world what she had just shown to her uncle moments ago. 

           She smiled into the wind.

_ This is reckless _ .

           Sansa whispered back to the voice in her head:  _ I know. And it feels so good _ .

 


	9. petyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)

 

           Petyr barely made it up to the twenty-fourth floor. Excusing himself to all of the people that bothered him on the way to the elevator (why in seven hells did everyone need him all of a sudden? With his cock straining against his pants and the feel of Sansa’s need clinging to her underwear deep in his pocket, the fabric intertwined between his fingers...  _ Get the fuck out of the way _ , he growled in his head). Petyr supposed the only godsend in all of that, while impatiently watching the numbers rise and gently easing the ache, was not running into Myranda. It would have a  _ nightmare _ . Her devil smile staring at the bulge between his legs. Her hands automatically closing in as she offered to kindly  _ help him out _ . Worse, was the Petyr wasn’t sure he would have been in any condition to say  _ no _ . 

           He slammed open the door to the bathroom of the empty floor. It took no time at all to come. Petyr listened to the ringing of his heartbeat in his head mixed with the fading echo of his moans off the walls.

_ What in the Seven hells was she doing? _

           He stared at his reflection.  _ Gods _ , he looked wild. Mad. Unhinged. Even through the haze of lust that (ever so slowly) was seeping out of his body, Petyr couldn’t help but see it staring back: that monster, that shadowed thing that had almost taken Sansa in her bed. The thing that he reigned back just enough to  _ only  _ jerk off whilst he watched her sleeping (at least, he hoped she’d been sleeping the whole time. Her faint murmuring  _ Hello _ still haunted him). That  _ thing _ staring back at him: wild eyes, shallow breaths, the white lace of Sansa’s lingerie gripped painfully tight in one hand with his other wrapped around his cock. A wicked creature that crept up from the deepest level of hell – that’s who stared back at him. 

           Still.  _ Still _ , Petyr couldn’t hide the smile that crept upon his lips. It was a wicked thing, a terrible thing, one to match the thoughts (and the sight of her) that plagued his mind for nearly a week. 

_ Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing. _

           Petyr closed his eyes. Pictured the slow rise of her dress (who except the Starks would wear a dress in the middle of winter?) up her thighs, up up up up. Not nearly fast enough, but also too fast. Petyr  _ wanted _ this as much as he knew he shouldn’t. The minute she 

           “I’m your uncle, sweetling,” he began. “I’m not  _ supposed _ to want to see it.”

           Even Sansa saw it for what it was: the thinly veiled truth. She batted her lashes (ever so sweetly), pouting her lips (gods, he wanted to bite them) as she asked, “So, you  _ want _ to see all of me?”

           Petyr couldn’t say anything. He wanted to, he should have.  _ Of course I don’t want to, you’re my niece and you’re still a child and we’re at my fucking job for gods’ sakes. Put your hands down and get out before you or I do something we really regret _ .

           Only, the words took too long to come out. Petyr had to shove them out, really, along with shoving out some animalistic urge to bend her over the conference table and take her every which way. She was practically throwing herself at him; how could Petyr think anything else, with the only thing stopping her was his hand on hers? 

           More empty excuses. Of Sansa throwing herself at strangers, of her being underage. None of it deterred her (as it should). And yet

           “What are you doing…?” It came out more like a growl, and hardly with the tone to  _ stop _ . Would he let her, really? When her dress was inching higher (too slowly) and Petyr’s heart was beating heavily between his ribs (too fast). He could feel the strain of his cock as the fabric revealed more and more of her smooth thighs. They were unmarred; in one blink, Petyr saw them covered with countless circles, mapping where he gripped her as he ate her cunt, as he pounded deep inside her. They were gone the next blink.

           The moment Sansa revealed those lacy underthings, Petyr nearly lost it. His soul eventually found his body again, one that was stroking his cock as he watched his niece. As Sansa dragged her fingers around and along her core (of which, her desire was already soaking the fabric).

           “You wanted to see it, right, Petyr?”

           His eyes shifted to hers – they were hardly blue anymore, shaded by lust. As dark as his must be. Words failed him, but not her. A wicked thing crossed her lips as she asked, “You wanted to  _ touch _ it, right?”

           “You need to  _ stop _ , sweetling.”

           She didn’t. “If you want me to stop…” And then.  _ And then _ , the little nymph had the gall to finger herself. Stared at him all the while. “Then stop me.”  _ Do you like this _ , she was asking with her eyes.  _ Of course you do. Look at the way you can’t stop staring. You can’t stop touching yourself. You’re a terrible person, jacking off to your underage niece _ .

           And he knew it. Petyr couldn’t entirely reign in the moan that escaped his lips, watching her fingers dip in and out of the lingerie. Every now and then he caught the sight of dark auburn curls, and (definitely his imagination) the edge of her lips. Could  _ smell _ her.  _ Fuck _ . Was she really doing this? Here? In front of him?  _ For _ him? Petyr was either the luckiest man in the world, or this was an incredibly elaborate dream (one which he did not want to wake up from).

           He was so close to coming in his pants like a fucking teenager. He should be embarrassed of himself (likely he would be in about half an hour, the weight of exactly what they had done finally cresting the weight of desire that pumped through his veins). Only, Sansa stopped. She had the audacity to slip her underwear off and toss it onto his lap. Petyr had the twisted mind of a madman to keep them. Hold them, smell them, as he jacked off upstairs.

           He was stroking himself again. And  _ fuck it _ , honestly. Petyr let his mind wander through that delicious vision – a  _ memory _ , not a dream, not a fantasy, but the truth – whilst up and down he stroked himself. It warped, the memory. Turning from the innocence of Sansa  _ only  _ lifting up her skirts and playing with him, to something darker, baser. By the time he came again, Petyr had lost track how many positions he took her in his mind.

           He  _ needed _ more of his niece.

           The worst of it was the fucking trip. What Petyr wouldn’t  _ give _ right now to dump everything and rush back to his apartments, and take Sansa then and there. Maybe in the kitchen, where he had been  _ so  _ close to taking her (that morning! How was it barely  _ hours _ ago that Petyr had her cornered against the counter, his hand on her thigh). And now. And now: Sansa was  _ teasing _ him,  _ using _ him. Coming for him here, at his work, and leaving Petyr with so much more than a hard on.

           Petyr splashed his face with cold water, over and over again until he could get rid of the delicious way Sansa’s hands slid up her bare thigh. The briefest peek of her wanting cunt as she slid fingers inside herself. The way she stared at him (it took all his effort to look up from her covered cunt, once, half a heartbeat. And  _ gods _ if the determination in her gaze made him nearly lose all control. The way her own eyes were hooded with desire. The little peak of her tongue as she watched him watch her).

           Deep breath. Folding the soiled undergarment into a neat square, as if that could cancel out the truth of what it was, and why Petyr would never throw it away.

_ Fuck.  _

           Another. Tucking the damned thing in his back pocket. Petyr could almost not feel his heart’s hammering through his veins, or an echo of it pulsing between his legs. 

_ Fuck _ .

           He  _ hated _ his niece right now. Hated his job, and Tywin, and the retrial, and everything that was keeping himself from going home to plunge deep inside of her. Hated himself, too, for this thing he was (it took Petyr by surprise that at the end of that list was himself. Oh, how low he had fallen! How high that monster, raging and writhing inside him, clawed out rationality from his mind). But! But if she was willing to come to his own office and tease him like that...well, Sansa was going to regret it.

           At least,  _ after  _ Petyr had his fun.

* * *

           The rest of Thursday was a blur. 

           There might have been another meeting. Tywin probably came in to confirm the information that Petyr had to find out. Myranda probably (read: definitely) had tried to weasel her way back into his pants; she didn’t, nor did she make a (loud) assumption of what Petyr had just done upstairs. He must have wondered if everyone could smell the sin reeking off of his skin. It had always been there, since the moment he laid eyes on Sansa. But, Petyr could remember none of it. 

           But the way Sansa spread her legs apart, eased her finger inside herself – oh, Petyr would  _ never _ be able to forget that.

           “And, here’s your copy of the paperwork.”

           Petyr blinked, choking back the growl that threatened to break loose at the loss of that wondrous memory. He could die a happy man right now. Though, Petyr would much, much rather die a happy man  _ after  _ he had his fill of Sansa (rather, after he’d filled her).

           It wasn’t until the flight attendant announced their destination late Thursday night (or maybe it was early morning Friday?) that Petyr remembered where he was going, and why. Dread sat uneasily in his stomach for the short flight, hardly an hour to the Reach. Barely had time to shower and take a quick nap in the hotel before driving out to the office. There were other stops he needed to make, ones that he planned to spread out. It was suddenly paramount that Petyr finish everything as quickly as possible.

           So, here he was. Too many miles away from where he wanted to be. He was meeting with the defense lawyer for the retrial, and though they’d been talking for several minutes Petyr heard exactly seven words of it.

           Petyr glazed over the document, noting the name and date of issuance. Nothing looked out of order there (sometimes, the defendants didn’t understand the fact that documents were a precise thing, needing to go through the right channels. Those were the best, though, when they fucked up. Petyr could throw away an entire argument. A pity this wasn’t one of those). He gazed across the table at the man in question. 

           Petyr leaned back in his chair. Remembered Sansa’s dress rising high as he leaned back and let her do it (despite the protests, which weren’t protests of  _ her _ but of him). Shot back forward. Cleared his throat, pretending to examine the chair as if it had bit him. “I see. And you  _ are _ aware what this alleged evidence would mean should you bring it to court?”

           The man was about to speak but the lawyer shook her head. He sat back, rubbing an invisible ring around his finger. Curious. Who was he having an affair with? Or rather, who was he trying to hide his marriage from? Petyr dragged his gaze away over to the woman, whose hair was pulled back so tightly Petyr could see the outlines of where her bones met. “My client has been made fully aware of the charges and the consequences of this evidence. And he still wishes to proceed with the retrial.”

           Petyr loathed the lawyer, only because the way she held her head and the simplicity of her dress (honestly, who would wear that shade of fuschia with a navy blazer?). It all screamed that she wasn’t willing to bargain. The man would have been easier to work on. Deals not to tell on his wife (or his mistress). A hefty sum of money to conveniently make the new evidence disappear. He might be able to before the day was done. Petyr would need to keep watch and corner him, preferably when the lawyer went to the bathroom. A pity they weren’t in King’s Landing – there were no fewer than ten good prostitutes (of every gender and kink) that could work on him. On both of them. A pity indeed he was here.

           Petyr laced his fingers atop the table. Confidence; that was half the game. “I see. Then, I should have you know that upon first inspection, this evidence is rather thin. Between you an me – and with full disclosure – I can’t imagine it holding up to the judge.” (Of whom Petyr had bribed. Not one in specific (they wouldn’t know who was presiding over the retrial for a few weeks), but all of them in King’s Landing. They didn’t  _ know _ it was Petyr, granted, but they always conveniently voted in favor of his clients). 

           The lawyer woman (Petyr wished he remembered her name. It was too late now to ask, or to scan through the papers beneath his hands to find it. That wasn’t professional at all) straightened in her seat. “I suppose we’ll see, then.”

           Petyr gave her a half-smile. “I suppose so.”

           He wondered if she and Tywin went to the same person to shove a stick up their asses.

           Petyr’s phone buzzed just then. Pretended to ignore it, but the buzz wouldn’t stop (a call, then, instead of an email). Petyr casually filched it out of his pocket, and he couldn’t deny a certain thrill at thinking (hoping) it was Sansa. 

           It wasn’t of course. But look who it was! The fucking lion himself, ass stick and all. Petyr excused himself, slipping out of the conference room and walking down the hall towards the elevators. He looked at the glimmering logo of the firm, his finger wavering over the  _ End Call _ button, before he answered. “Hello?”

           “It’s been moved to the twentieth.”

_ Not even a hello? _ Petyr bit back a colorful rainbow of insults, at least half of which would have him fired on the spot. One day… “The twentieth?” He checked the calendar app on his phone as quickly as he could. Gods knew the Lion didn’t like to be kept waiting. “That’s a week earlier than intended, but I’m sure we should be able to have our stories and evidence in line by then.” Not to mention the amount of ass-kissing and bribes to all of the witnesses, the jury, the judge... 

           “No, Baelish. The twentieth of  _ this month _ .” Tywin said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

           “The…” Petyr coughed, hoping to hide the surprise. Another quick check of the calendar. “That’s  _ next  _ Monday. Are you sure you mean this month?”

           A stupid question, by far. But Tywin (by some divine intervention of the gods?) didn’t chew Petyr’s ear off for being so  _ stupid _ . Either that, or there was something else bothering the old Lion that doling out punishment for the tiniest things was above him at the moment. That’s new. “I’m  _ sure _ , though loathe I’m to entertain the sudden change, as are you. Because of it, I expect you to be back in King’s Landing tomorrow. I need you to coach him on what to say in court.”

           Petyr bit his lip.  _ Maybe if you had raised your grandson better… _ But as much as he  _ yearned _ to say that – and a slew of other things, a list so long he’d be long dead before he reached the bottom – (preferably to his face, but through phone would do), Petyr knew better. Knew that as much as the firm needed him and his talents, they would be just as happy to throw him away for  _ anyone else _ . Even the ruse of having been married to Lysa with her good names (Tully  _ and _ Arryn) only worked so far. And with her dead...

           He shook his head. Best not to dwell on his late wife, lest he say something to Tywin he would really,  _ really _ regret. “Of course, Sir. I’ll need to book a red eye back–"

           “Then do it.” And the line went dead.

           “You fucking asshole,” Petyr breathed. Passersby gave him a single look of confusion, but kept walking by. Lawyers more than anyone else were just as well versed in swears as they were in bullshitting their way through court.

           Petyr slid back into the conference room. The men looked up at him, a curious expression on his face. The woman was flipping through a folder of documents, making notes in the margins.

           “Now, where were we…” Petyr began, smoothing his jacket as he sat back down. 

           All the while, Petyr’s mind played over the consequences of the retrial moving up a month. He didn’t say as much to them (though he should have. If they  _ didn’t _ know yet, then better for Petyr). 

           He didn’t say much, either, because Petyr only saw the delicious memory of his niece. 

           Still, despite how much this was going to fuck him, Petyr hid the smile. He’d be back in King’s Landing  _ tonight _ . This was so much better than original plan (well, his other original plan.  _ The _ original was flat-out skipping the trip altogether. That would have gotten him fired for sure. The other plan was slipping back to King’s Landing in the middle of the night and back here before anyone realized he was gone. He would have had to pay for the flight or car with cash, and been dead tired, but that’s what espresso was for).

           Still. Petyr would be able to finally  _ repay _ Sansa.

           All that was left was to find his niece the perfect gift before he flew back home.

* * *

_ This is madness. _

           Petyr pulled up beside Oswell, who was working late tonight (Petyr knew the doorman preferred the night shifts; less chance of running into people who wanted to  _ talk _ ). The man gave Petyr a curt nod when he handed him the keys, making sure not to forget the lovely wrapped box (with a bow) sitting on the passenger seat.

_ Is she here? Is she still seeing that piece of shit? Has she asked about me? Is she waiting ever so patiently for me to come home and finish what she started? _

           All questions – and a million more, at least – fighting to tumble out of Petyr’s mouth as he watched Oswell slip into the silver Jag. Petyr was sound of mind (for now) not to say anything or show his concern.

           Or, rather  _ obsession _ .

           That’s what it was, really. An obsession with his niece. An obsession with something beautiful, something that (he hoped) would get out of his system once he had a single taste. Just one. Just a touch, and a taste, and he could relieve himself of this heavy, clawing madness at just  _ thinking _ about Sansa.

           Petyr was a grand liar, and damned the gods if that wasn’t his biggest one.

           The only thing  _ problem  _ to this plan was Sansa not being home. Was Sansa (gods forbid) entertaining that lout from the restaurant? As much as Petyr relished the idea that her little  _ act  _ on Thursday at his work had been an admission of  _ I don't want that douchebag, I only ever wanted you, Petyr  _ (a string of words he wasn't ashamed to admit began many of his impure fantasies that got him through his brief lonely night at the hotel). At least, that's what he told himself as he stroked his cock, wishing –  _ waiting –  _ for when it would be her hands that did it. 

           Petyr strangled a chuckle. It came out like a mutilated cough. Oswell knew better to pretend there was nothing amiss (Petyr would need to throw in a little bonus at the end of the month. Just to be safe).

           Gods.  _ Gods _ .

           Now, Petyr couldn't stand how  _ slow _ the elevator rose. He stared at the numbers, idly rising. Listening to the echo of his foot tapping against the steel floor –  _ taptaptaptap _ . It was almost as frantic as his heart. 

           And now, Petyr was  _ giving up _ . To that lurking hunger that dwelt deep inside him, startled awake the first time he spied Sansa. Growling, roaring for much more than a single touch or taste (see? He was a damned liar who couldn’t keep it straight for five minutes).

_ It's her fault _ , he told himself _.  _ Sansa’s fault that  _ this _ was who Petyr was now. Her fault for teasing him, with her aching cunt, with her fingers, with never backing away as Petyr cornered her. Right. Right? 

           Oh, didn't he sound rather perverse then? Blaming Sansa for what he wanted to do, which was a lot. What he was  _ about _ to do, whenever this gods-damned elevator got to the top floor. 

_ Taptaptaptap   _

           There was still time to back out, but who was he fooling, truly? Not with the package in his hand, or the growing ache between his legs as he grew closer and closer to her. Imagine that: Petyr just going straight to his bed, and sleeping, and pretending like he wasn’t obsessing over the fact that a wall separated him and the object of his obsession. Hells, there had been half a country between them, and  _ still _ Petyr couldn’t keep his mind from wandering here, to her.

_ What if she’s out on another date with Douchebag? _ (Petyr tried to remember if Sansa ever said that boy’s name. Maybe. But it was too late to think of him with his damned smiles and wandering hands as anything other than Douchebag McFuckface. It fit). Worse still was the mirror of his own date. What if Petyr stepped out of the elevator to the sight of her bent over the couch, the gross slapping of him as he took her? Or if they were cuddling in her bed, the fucker pretending to shower her with promises of love and marriage and children, all while easing himself between her legs?

           At least, Petyr was  _ honest _ with his desire. 

           He strained his ears, wondering if it was merely the groan of the elevator, or something else.

           When the doors slid open, the apartments were mercifully dark and quiet.

           Petyr left the lights off, toeing off his shoes and loosening his tie by the light filtering in through the window. It was a mix of silvery moonlight and the golden hues of a city that preferred not to sleep.

           All the while, his heart hurt. His cock, too, though that was a given.

           What if she wasn’t home? What if she  _ actually _ was on a date, taking Petyr’s advice to heart, wrapped in the arms of Douchebag? 

           At least Petyr had a few acquaintances he could call favors in from. Lothor could find that fucker’s address. And Petyr could plant drugs in his house ( _ he _ wouldn’t be the one to do it, of course). Seducing and selling drugs to a minor – McFuckface would be in jail for a long time.

           He wandered to the edge of the hall. All the doors were open, casting abstract swaths of light against the floor and walls. Petyr held his breath as he took a step forward, another. 

           Part of him said to keep walking. Go to his room, close the door without turning around, and go the fuck to sleep. Nothing had happened between them (really). He could save himself.

           Petyr’s feet froze in front of her doorway. 

           The moonlight cut across her body beneath a blanket. She was turned towards the wall, nothing but sheaths of auburn greeting him as Petyr stood there, watching. Beneath the heavy drum of his heart, he heard her breathing.

           His cock betrayed him, remembering the same sight only a few nights prior. 

           With slow, quiet steps, Petyr entered the room. Sat down on the foot of the bed, listening to the quiet groan of the springs. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t noticed him yet.  _ You can still save yourself _ , said one voice again, tugging his arm away from madness. The other voice had him gripping tightly to the wrapped box in his left hand. Petyr set it beside his thigh and reached over, shaking Sansa awake. 

_ To hell with salvation _ .

           “I...what… Petyr?” Sansa scrambled back against the headboard, clinging to the blanket in front of her. It was cute. So cute, Petyr had to fight against the itch in his fingers to rip it from her. To touch her, every single inch, outside and in. There  _ was _ a horrid whisper in his mind telling him to. To take, and take, and take.

           But why  _ take _ when Sansa had proven she was so willing to  _ give _ ? Inch by inch, she was relenting, and whether it was her body that wanted Petyr or something else (something as dark and twisted as what Petyr felt clawing up his throat, suffocating him), at the moment he didn’t care. He was doing this, and there was no turning back. That, and there was no point to force himself onto his niece. Not when she hadn’t stopped his wandering hand tracing up her leg. Not after that little  _ show _ she had given him in the conference room. So no, there wasn’t a reason at all for Petyr to rip the blanket off (and her clothes) and devour Sansa with his hands and mouth.

           All of that isn’t to forget the fact despite her newfound confidence in herself, in playing with Petyr, there was the truth (which was the bigger of them all, and one that possibly he  _ should _ have taken more heed in) that Sansa was still underage.

           Petyr glanced over at the clock. It was just past midnight.  _ Only a week left _ . The thought shouldn’t fill him with a wicked glee.

           “Good night, Sansa,” he said quietly, scooting ever so slightly closer towards her, but still very much away. He kept his hands off from her, no matter the itch. “I hope you didn’t miss me…?”

           She rubbed the wayward flecks of sleep from her eyes, still holding on to her blanket for dear life. Petyr wished there was more light in the room – whether that was merely a trick of his imagination, or actually the silhouette of a hardened nipple pressing against the fabric, he couldn’t say. He  _ could _ say which he would have preferred. That was obvious. “Good night. I...I thought you were on your trip?”

           Petyr (tried as he did) left his eyes on her lips. The slight part of them, the way the moonlight traced the curve. “I was. Am. There have been some  _ changes _ , but things like that happen all the time.” An effort, but Petyr dragged his gaze away. “I would have thought you’d be excited to see me.”

_ Excited _ in more ways than one, at least.

           Sansa was wide awake now. Petyr saw the understanding (and fear?) slide over her face. She schooled them away with a few blinks. “I am. I just, I thought Kella said your trips usually last a long time?. I hadn’t thought you would be home this soon?”

           “Why, sweetling?” Petyr traced a hand atop the blankets, roaming along the side of her leg (but not touching it). “Did you have  _ plans _ while I was away?” Down, around towards the inside of her shin. “Did you have another date with that boy?”  _ And did you let him touch you again? _

           Sansa eventually shook her head. “No, there hasn’t been much time for a date. You’ve only been gone a day.”

           Petyr didn’t get rid of the little smile crossing his face. “Good.” Despite the words that she  _ should _ date other people, and other people her age. He might come to regret that admission in the future, but right now, Petyr had to focus on dragging his hand back down towards her foot. “Unless, you had other plans… Did you touch yourself while I was away, sweetling?”

           When Sansa didn’t reply immediately with an embarrassed  _ No! _ , Petyr knew. She  _ must _ have touched herself after she came home that afternoon, like Petyr had. The thought turned his smile twisted.

           “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he began, clenching his roving fingers, shoving the fist into the mattress. The spring groaned beneath. “It’s a natural thing, and a  _ wonderful _ thing. Wouldn’t you agree?”

           Slowly, Sansa nodded. Petyr could see the flush of pink staining her cheeks. Was it embarrassment, or need that colored her face? Likely both. But by the end of the night…

           Petyr turned slightly, lifting one leg so it sat at an angle atop the bed. Sansa watched him move, perhaps  _ waiting _ for him to pounce. She didn’t relent the hold on the blanket. “Do you remember what you said to me, sweetling? About wanting experience…?”

           Was that recognition clouding her eyes then? And maybe a dash of fear, too. Of what she wrought by toying with her uncle, by teasing him with her words and her hands and just existing. Petyr watched the column of her throat rise and fall with a swallow (oh, how he wanted to mark that, bruise it with his mouth and fingers). “Yes, I…” Was she about to back out now? Petyr would  _ hate _ that more than anything (his cock would hate it most). But, and as much as he regretted the thought (though he  _ shouldn’t _ ), Petyr would abide by her wishes. If she backed out now, even after all of her teasing… He had a hand and a wicked imagination.

           “Yes…?” he trilled after her. “Who did you want the experience for?”

           He’d be a liar if he didn’t desperately want Sansa to say  _ You _ .

           She licked her lips first, a sight Petyr’s gaze was drawn to. He’d be a liar, too, if he didn’t desperately want her pretty pink lips wrapped around his cock. Sansa shook her head slightly, perhaps dispersing her own terrible thoughts. “For my… For no one in particular. I just thought, since I’m off to university soon, it would be best to know things.”

           Petyr knew a cop out lie when he heard one. There was something Sansa wasn’t willing to share, at least not right now. “What sort of  _ things _ would you like to know?”  _ I’m a very good teacher _ .

           She looked around the room, outside the window, the open door. “You know… Things.”

           “Sansa.” He said it sternly, like a father might when just about to scold his child. Petyr had absolutely no intention of being or doing either. He waited until she met his gaze. This was cute, too. Her innocence when finally confronted with the truth that  _ this was going to happen _ . Unless she stopped it, of course. But Petyr had a feeling she was both too stubborn and too curious to do it. “You can think of this as  _ my  _ gift to you. But, if you want me to teach you, you have to be specific.” Petyr unclenched his fist (his fingers were sore), letting them drift up beside her leg again. “Would you like that, sweetling?”

           It wasn’t quite like pulling teeth, this tension between them that was strangling. But gods if Petyr didn’t secretly thrill in it. In watching Sansa squirm. Despite her brashness in his office (which was a hell of a turn on, Petyr couldn’t deny), this coyness was just as good too.

           Again, slowly, Sansa nodded. “Yes. Please.”

           “Please what?”

           Again, she licked her lips. Again, Petyr imagined them around him, sucking him off. “Please teach me.”

           He could have come right then and there, with the way Sansa’s voice was quiet, with the way she stared at him through her lashes and with her cheeks stained a heavy pink. Petyr swore he heard the hammering of her heart, too, matching his own.

           A smile far from kind played at his lips. “Of course, sweetling. Anything.”

           Realization dawned on Sansa then. What she just asked. What Petyr was prepared to give.

           “I was wondering if you could  _ show _ me again,” he began, gently tugging on the blanket. Not nearly with any strength (though there it still was, that vile thought to rip and take). “I don’t think I got a proper look last time…” With that, Petyr lifted himself atop the bed, knees straddling the lump of her legs. 

           “What are you–?”

           Petyr bent in close, propping one hand on the pillow beside her head (his fingers, on their own, wrapped auburn curls around and around before letting go). Closer, lips  _ so close _ they were practically touching, but they weren’t. He wanted to – gods, he wanted to. “As long as I don’t touch you, Sansa, then we haven’t broken any laws.” Lies, of course. Petyr wasn’t completely versed in the laws dealing with minors, but he  _ knew _ this definitely crossed several lines. At the least, if Sansa’s willingness was consensual, well...the guilt would sit easier in his stomach tomorrow.

           Sansa took the lie and swallowed it. Slowly, she lowered the blanket from her chest. Petyr moved back, allowing her the room.

           She was dressed, of course (a pity, when his fantasy on the plane had been Sansa completely naked and completely willing to give herself to him). Sansa’s fingers paused at her waist. There were goosepimples covering her arms. 

           “Lower, sweetling.” She complied, tossing the blanket the last bit so it sat bunched atop her feet. Petyr, meanwhile, couldn’t stop tracing the growing expanse of her revealed to him.  _ Clothed _ , of course, but the shirt and shorts couldn’t stave off the rampant imaginings in his mind.

           Petyr was well aware he was licking his own lips. Hungry. Had he always been this hungry, this ravenous? Likely not. He didn’t bother looking at her as he said, “And your shorts, sweetling.”

           It took her longer to comply with this, though that might also just have been a distortion of time. Every millisecond felt like an eon. Each centimeter of stomach, then hip, then thigh was slowly, painfully slowly, revealed to him.

           Being  _ diligent _ as she was, Sansa had gripped her underwear along with her sleeping shorts. 

           He couldn’t stop staring: the pretty curls of auburn a stark contrast against ivory skin. The curve of her lips, slightly parted, as if  _ waiting _ for him. He saw how they glistened already; she was aching, too. It was then Petyr cursed himself for not turning the light on, but at the same time, reveled in the darkness. Would Sansa stop if she saw the truth depth of hunger in Petyr’s eyes? Would Sansa realize what a frightful man he was, truly, when stripped bare of pretenses?

           If she wasn’t afraid, she was a fool.

           Petyr’s hand moved on its own, aching to touch her. Reason caught up with him just in time, stalling his hand inches above her thigh. Granted, Petyr had touched her before, but that was with the barrier of clothes. Skin to skin was different (right?)

           He remembered, too, the pretense of why he was here. Dragged his gaze up to meet Sansa’s. “What would you like me to show you?”

           Sansa blinked, seeming to remember the lie, too. If they were a kind uncle showing his niece the ways of the world – well, it was a much easier thing to swallow. Easier than the fact that they were two wicked people toying with their wicked thoughts, afraid they would burn before they realized there was no end to them. “I… We can’t touch?” Though she asked it as clarification, it almost sounded like an upset plea.

_ Oh, I fucking wish _ . Petyr shook his head, not tearing his gaze from her. “No, not yet.”  _ Not until you’re eighteen. And then… _

           Sansa dragged one hand up the outside of her thigh, lying just above the tangle of curls. “How...how does a man touch himself?”

           Petyr bit back a smile. Either she had never watched porn before (he could see that, though), or she was improperly curious about her uncle. “Would you like me to show you?”

           Her fingers moved slightly towards her opening. Nodded. “Please.”

           “Okay, sweetling. But in return, you have to touch yourself, too.”

           Petyr leaned back on his legs, toying the belt free from the loops (oh, how he wondered if  _ she _ wondered what it felt like? The sting of leather against her skin, or the biting of the edge as she struggled against them bound across her wrists. If she ever asked, what kind of monster was Petyr to deny her?). He tossed it aside, aware of it slithering off onto the floor as he undid the button and zip of his pants. Sansa was eager to learn: not once did her eyes move away from his hands.

           He supposed it was good his cock was already hard – it was a much  _ prettier _ sight than a flacid one, though that was his opinion. Who knew, maybe Sansa had a thing for his cock regardless of how hard it was (though, it would be a rare moment when he would be around her without being hard). Petyr gave it a few short strokes, to ease the ache. 

           “Have you seen a man’s cock before, sweetling?”

           Though she was staring at it, following the slow movement of his hand up and down, Sansa shook her head. Gods, there was something so terribly delicious about Sansa’s innocence. It shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t be this turned on by it. But he was. And who wouldn’t be? 

           “Do you want to touch it?”

           Sansa’s eyes widened. Because  _ yes _ she wanted to, or because this was in violation of their one rule:  _ no touching _ . 

           She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. 

           Instead, he said, “Touch yourself, sweetling. I can’t be the only one having fun tonight. I can tell you’re as aching as I am.”

           Her hips rolled slightly at his words, and oh, that was good. Sansa – the prim and proper thing she was expected to be – getting off to his dirty talk. Petyr smiled; or, his smile grew worse, not really a smile any more than he was a saint.

           Sansa lowered her fingers, teasing around her opening as she watched Petyr, and Petyr watched her. He slowed his strokes to the movement of her own fingers, up and down her slit. When finally she dipped one finger inside her, Petyr groaned along with Sansa. 

           He bent over her, fisting the bedsheets by her thigh. Not touching her, far from that. Too focused on watching her pleasure herself, on the little sounds that escaped her lips, on the rolling of the mattress beneath as Sansa pushed and pulled her hips to the rhythm. Too aware that he could come right now if he wanted. But what sort of man would Petyr be if he came first?

           “Faster, sweetling.”

           She did, ever so eager to please. Sansa had one hand beneath her shirt, playing with a nipple. Petyr could see the outline of the other, straining hard against the fabric. Back down to her cunt, to the wicked sound of her fingers (she had two now) sliding in and out of herself. The way they glistened in the moonlight. 

           Petyr tried to match her rhythm, rolling his hips into his hand, imagining it was his cock that was thrusting in and out of her cunt instead of her fingers. Imagining it was his name that escaped her lips in little pants and breathy moans. He watched her, followed her, waiting. But eventually his own need was too great. He was clenching his muscles, his teeth. Staving off his own orgasm until she came first.

           Her other hand had snaked down to meet the other, rubbing her clit in punishing circles until Petyr heard her breath hitch, saw her hips lift off the bed.

           She came with a breathless “Fuck.”

           Petyr couldn’t imagine a scene more beautiful, or a girl more perfect.

           As for his own orgasm. It would be a  _ waste _ to come in his hands again.

           “Lift up your shirt, Sansa.”

           Her own fingers paused, her eyes hooded as she tried to parse his command. Petyr looked up from where they were dipped between her lower lips and stared at her confusion. Gritting his teeth, he added, “Just your stomach. Hurry.”

           Like everything else, she did so. Uncertainty clouded her own desire, that was plain. And perhaps there were thoughts in her head screaming at her that  _ this is wrong _ and  _ stop before you regret it _ , too. 

           Thank the gods she was too deep in her pleasure to listen to reason. Petyr came, his seed coating her stomach as he pumped out every last drop he could. Some trickled down her hips, her thighs. A terrible glee filled him as he watched his come tangle in her curls, slowly finding its way to her own need glistening her lower lips.

           They sat there in the darkness, listening the their breathing for a long while. 

           Petyr swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He knew what he wanted to slate it with – and couldn’t help stare at her cunt all the while. “Did you learn everything you wanted, sweetling?”

           Sansa swallowed the lie, nodding though her thoughts remained shadowed by moonlight. 

           It helped, the orgasm. But as the heavy buzz of silence began overtaking the heavy thrum of his heart, Petyr heard it echo in his veins, a steady rhythm of  _ more more more more _ . Lust not eased by this bout of impropriety, but  _ stoked _ by it. Aching for so, so much more than this. Aching for  _ everything _ .

           What did he say? A liar, through and through.

           Petyr tucked his cock back into his pants, half afraid that he might do something (more) reckless should he keep it out. He slid off the bed, picking up and folding the belt in his hands. Perhaps that could be another lesson, one that Petyr wasn’t sure if he wanted to be before or after her birthday. 

           “What’s that?” Sansa said, and Petyr had completely forgotten his  _ other _ gift for her.

           “Oh, this?” he said, picking it up with his free hand. One of the ribbons had gotten crumpled, and there was a slight tear at one corner, but otherwise the wrapping was intact. Petyr slid his gaze from it to her, drinking in the way her face was still flushed and the tangle of auburn framing her cheeks.  _ Gods _ she was perfect. He weighed the box, as if debating whether or not he was going to give it to Sansa (and by the gods, Petyr did his best to bring his stare away from Sansa, who was staring at it with a renewed innocence and glee that Petyr was  _ this close _ from asking for another round). He tossed it in the tangle of sheets, landing with a quiet  _ thump _ . “It’s for you. A gift, for the one you gave me.”

           Of which, Petyr didn’t specify. Was it the gift of her soiled underwear, which Petyr still had tucked in his back pocket right now? The gift of her teasing herself with the fear of being found only heightening that damning ache between his legs? The gift of her absolute and complete (though not freely given. Yet)  innocence?

           All of the above.

           Sansa picked at the ribbon. Would she be so  _ eager _ if she knew the truth behind the gift? Of course not. 

           The innocent excitement was replaced first by confusion, and then by a panicked sort of embarrassment. Of which he couldn’t help the small chuckle.  _ After what she had just asked me to show her…? _ Gods, he was a glutton for her innocence. Petyr sat back down on the edge of the bed, not at all wanting to leave, but well aware it wasn’t his choice. At least, not entirely. Asking, with a crooked smile pulling at his lips, “If you want, sweetling, I can help show you how to use it.”

           The darkness couldn’t hide Sansa’s blush as she held the dildo in her hands, staring at Petyr with (what he thought, and more: what he hoped) was renewed lust.

           His smile grew wider. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I'm trash, and so are you]


	10. sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ I'm so sorry this is late!!! This chapter just would not end D: D:]

 

           His smile was anything but  _ kind _ .

           Part of her (the rational part, at least) knew that she definitely  _ should not _ have taunted him in his office. Sansa thought back on it often in the short time Petyr was on his trip – and Sansa couldn’t help thinking that Petyr himself had shortened the trip to do  _ this _ . The way that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her here or in that conference room. The way that his fingers ached to touch her. The inches (too few of them and too many) that separated them as they came.  _ This _ – Petyr demanding to watch her touch herself without the thin shield of her underwear, Petyr giving her this  _ thing _ – this was entirely all her fault.

           And part of her (the damning part that made the ache between her legs throb the longer Petyr’s darkened gaze stared at her, or when he licked his lips after she dipped her fingers inside herself) liked it. Liked it  _ so, so much _ .

           Sansa had still been high on her orgasm to not register that unkind, wicked smile until after her fingers undid the wrapping. 

           “If you want, sweetling, I can help show you how to use it.”

           Embarrassment flooded her at Petyr’s words. It was a completely different heat than the desire that was slowly ebbing out of her system. It was a completely different blush than waking up to the sight of Petyr sitting at the foot of her bed. It was...shame, perhaps? Because Petyr was practically  _ flaunting _ the fact that Sansa was a virgin. That Sansa had never done anything remotely close to  _ this _ in her short life. 

_ “Did you touch yourself while I was away, sweetling?” _

           The  _ No! _ caught in her throat. She should have yelled it and shoved him out of her room. No gentleman would ever ask a woman such things, nor would a gentlemen thrive on the way Sansa was silently squirming (she saw it plain in the smiles that kept trying to tug on his lips. Saw it plainly, too, in the briefest glance of darkened eyes to where her thighs joined beneath the blanket. Sansa tightened her hold on it, the only thing separating her from this monster. When Petyr continued, clarifying how  _ wonderful _ touching herself was, Sansa knew Petyr wasn’t going to relent unless she told him to. It was like that morning in the kitchen – Petyr was testing her. Pushing her, seeing how far Sansa’s mask dug into her very existence. 

           Slowly, Sansa nodded. She wanted to regret that. Felt the regret staining her cheeks as bright as her hair. Petyr shifted to move one leg half-on top of the mattress, and Sansa felt her heart hammering faster. Was he positioning himself to pounce on her? Moving slowly into place that the blanket she held on to for dear life would mean nothing?

           When he asked about Sansa’s need for  _ experience _ , she nearly spilled the truth of her marriage. How keen would Petyr be to fantasize about her – to touch her, to fuck her – if he knew she was already claimed by another? Not physically, and sometimes not emotionally, but the stake had been set long ago. 

           She didn’t believe herself when the words easily slipped past her lips: “Yes, please.”

           “Please what?”

           Good gods, Petyr was horrible. He  _ knew _ full well that Sansa had little to no experience, and was relishing in that fact. But on the other hand: if Sansa said  _ Please fuck me like you’ve dreamed _ , would he? If Sansa admitted  _ Please touch me and kiss me and hold me like I’ve dreamed _ , would he do that too? What  _ was _ Sansa to him? She didn’t know how deep this infatuation went, if it was just the touch and taste of Sansa that he wanted, craved, or something more. 

           She didn’t want to risk anything spilling, choosing simply to say, “Please teach me,” hoping that was enough.

           It was.

           Petyr smiled, but it was so far removed from anything kind. “Of course, sweetling. Anything.” Those words sent a warming fire burning inside her, stretching throughout every inch. In tandem to her heart was the quiet throbbing between her legs. 

           “I was wondering if you could show me again,” he began, fingers tugging on the blanket, though not nearly hard enough to pull it free. “I didn’t get a proper look last time…”

           Petyr lifted himself up, straddling her legs, startling her. He bent in close, so close they were practically kissing. She tasted mint on his breath, smelled the faint traces of his cologne. Sansa held her tongue – there wasn’t enough room to lick her lips, not without accidentally touching his too. Could Petyr hear and feel the frantic melody of her heart? She swore it was going to explode from the closeness. It was almost like in the kitchen, but there was something about night and the silvery lines of moon tracing Petyr’s face, that made the closeness now so much worse. 

           “As long as I don’t touch you, Sansa, then we haven’t broken any laws.”

           And they hadn’t, not by  _ that _ definition of wrongness. 

           Sansa swallowed the lie (it  _ was _ a lie, anyone could see that. But it was a boundary, a  _ Do Not Cross _ line that Petyr was willing to set, and all Sansa needed to do was nod and assent. Or, shake her head, tell him to get out, and forget that her body desperately wanted to try this thing, to give herself up to someone). The lie settled too comfortably between her ribs.

           When she nodded, Petyr moved back, silently motioning and waiting for Sansa to take the first step into depravity.

           She did.

           Petyr wanted to see what she only teased at, and with her consent, Sansa knew he would stop at nothing until he did. Still, there was that barrier in her mind screaming to  _ Stop _ . Even as she followed the path of his eyes when she shoved the blanket down. Even as she watched every feather of muscle in his face when she looped her fingers in the waistband of her shorts (and her underwear, no point in prolonging the inevitable, she thought), tugging them down.

           His breath caught. His eyes glued to her, tracing over every inch over and over again until Sansa imagined the sight was ingrained to every part of his brain. She didn’t need the full truth of the light above to see the  _ hunger _ in Petyr’s stare. She could taste it, so thick and heavy and cloying, coating her tongue. Swallowed it, letting his desire overcome those nagging voices of rationality. 

           She had already come this far tonight. There wasn’t any point stopping until she did come.

           Petyr seemed to remember the game, pulling his mind and gaze back for only a moment. “What would you like me to show you?”

_ Everything _ . Sansa reined back on that thought, hated herself for thinking it. This wasn’t the man she was promised to, wasn’t the man who would – by the time she was wrinkled and grey and smelled stale like Olenna – show her everything, from the wonders of Westeros, to the small gardens where he might steal away a first kiss as she stared at the flurry of colors in the setting sun. Petyr was only...a means for all the experience Sansa wanted, needed.

           He shouldn’t be anything more than that.

           He stayed true to his word, admitting that, no, they couldn’t touch. Though Sansa would have to have been deaf not to feel the intensity with which Petyr’s  _ yet _ lingered in the space between them.

           “How...how does a man touch himself?” The truth sounded so  _ innocent _ , Sansa couldn’t help but hold her breath, waiting for the laugh. It never came. There was a smile (perhaps the same smile that greeted her awake, just as unkind and full of wicked mischievousness). 

           His voice was quietly full of eagerness as he asked, “Would you like me to show you?” Sansa saw his fingers twitch. Guilty.

           Sansa left her own on her stomach. Her skin felt so hot, she worried she was seconds of way from self-combustion. Were the gods watching her, watching them, waiting for the time to unleash their wrath? And if so, what would be the final straw. She teased her finger an inch closer towards her center. Another inch. The gods hadn’t set her ablaze yet. If they were kind, perhaps they would wait until after they came.

           “Please.”

           It looked like Petyr had been thinking the same. He nodded, moving his hands to undo his belt. “Okay, sweetling. But in return, you have to touch yourself, too.”

           It wasn’t until now that the thought of  _ This is really happening _ dawned on Sansa. It wasn’t until she watched the belt slowly slither free from each loop, wasn’t until she watched him watch her as Petyr folded the leather in half and tossed it aside, that Sansa understood what she had wrought.

           He was being  _ deliberately _ slow with the belt, Sansa thought. Because it took no time at all for him to undo the button and zip, and his cock was resting in one hand whilst his other was fisted in the sheets beside her legs. It jutted upwards, the curve of it catching silvery moonlight. Petyr gave it a few short strokes; she didn’t miss the quiet sigh slipping from his mouth after the first. 

           “Have you seen a man’s cock before, sweetling?”

           She felt another flush of heat touch her cheeks. Gods, seeing it should have made her more embarrassed than his words. Watching Petyr’s hand moving up and down. Seeing something so intimate, so personal, and so wrong.

           “Touch yourself, sweetling. I can’t be the only one having fun tonight.” He gave her a wink.

           Sansa trailed her fingers down the plane of her stomach, feeling hotter with each passing second, with each passing stroke of Petyr’s hand around himself. She dipped one finger inside herself, surprised how wet she was, and shuddered. Imagining it was Petyr’s long fingers touching her, exploring her inside and out. Sansa moved to the motions of his hand, slowly adding a second finger.

           Petyr bent over her again, eyes focused entirely on the join of her legs. Hers were too focused on his hand, on the way his cock responded to each thrust. She couldn’t help but wonder if Petyr thought it  _ was _ her hand around him – or something else. Sansa’s free hand itched to help him out, to feel the weight and throb of his cock, help him tease out his own release.  _ As long as we don’t touch –  _ she moved that devious hand over to her cunt, feeling her orgasm coming close. Teasing her clit with one hand as the other continued moving in and out. Sansa rolled her hips in rhythm with Petyr’s, and she knew he  _ was _ imagining it was her hand or her cunt that he was fucking.

           The thought sent a pulse through her. And then, sneaking up on her when she dug her fingers in as deep as she could, hips pushing down greedy for more, she came with a breathless, “Fuck.”

           The world went silent as she felt her body give up beneath the warm sensation of her orgasm. 

           In the haze of her release, she heard, “Lift up your shirt, Sansa.”

           It was the use of her name that caught Sansa off guard. Like even Petyr knew this act was treading that boundary of propriety (and legality) way too closely. Still, that didn’t stop him as he grunted his release, his hot come coating her stomach. Sansa felt beads of it trickling down her sides, slithering down towards her own core. 

           Sansa blinked back into the present. It was only  _ minutes _ ago that they came. It was only seconds ago that Sansa began to regret it. The weight of his gift too heavy in her hands (Sansa couldn’t bring herself to toss it aside disgusted, because in truth she wasn’t, not entirely. It was...thoughtful? If not completely impure, if not completely  _ wrong _ for this facade of niece and uncle). Petyr’s come was still warm on her stomach – she had forgotten about that, too – and he laced his fingers in his lap as a means (Sansa thought) to keep from doing anything worse.

           Her brain swam back out from the haze of lust, whispering rationality to her.  _ Don’t do anything that you’ll regret _ , it began. Corrected itself:  _ don’t do anything else that you’ll regret _ . 

           Except from actually fucking her uncle, Sansa wasn’t sure there was anything else to regret.

* * *

           “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

           Sansa looked up at her friend, hoping the truth wasn’t obvious.

           Petyr was gone when she woke up in the morning. There were several seconds as she listened to the quietness filling the apartment, as she watched the thin slits of light spreading across the floor, that Sansa was certain all of that was a dream. It  _ had _ to be. There was no way Sansa – good, pure, innocent, about-to-be-married-in-a-week Sansa – had just let her uncle do  _ that _ to her. When she blinked, she could see the silhouette of him, moonlight highlighting half of his face and the dark glint in his eyes. 

           There were so many things that proved otherwise. One: the tangle of her sleeping shorts low on her thighs. Two: the heady scent of their mixed desire. Three: the heady  _ proof _ of Petyr’s desire dried on her stomach (Sansa scrubbed her skin until it was red and clean. Though, she couldn’t help the fear that his need for her would stain her permanently, proving to Willas that she had been impure and unfaithful).

           Four: the dildo that sat unwrapped on her nightstand. 

           She had a shred of sense not to take Petyr up on his teaching offer last night. Though she  _ thought _ about it. And Sansa wasn’t sure if the thought itself was worse.

           She snapped back into the present. The warmth of her coffee seeping into her fingers, the sweetness of the crepe tickling her nose. The light breeze off of the Blackwater. The heavy gaze of her friend, who’s soft brown eyes were too good at knowing when someone was keeping a juicy secret.

           Only, this wasn’t a secret Sansa would  _ ever _ tell. Not to Margaery; not to her future sister-in-law. “Sorry, I was just dozing off.”

           “No you weren’t,” Margaery said through a mouthful of ice cream and strawberries. She pointed her fork at Sansa, a bit of cream falling off the tongs. “Whatever it is, girl, you  _ need _ to tell me. Besides, I’ll keep hounding you until the day you die if you don’t.” She left it with a wink and a smile.

           Sansa was suddenly regretting inviting her friend for a girls’ day. Petyr wasn’t supposed to have come home early; he wasn’t supposed to be back for days, she thought. Plenty of time to pretend like that wicked urge to touch herself in his office was nothing, a by-product of loneliness and curiosity. 

           But he was back. And they had done so much worse.

           “I...went on that date a while ago. I think I told you about it?”

           Margaery leaned in, her gaze plain of  _ Tell me every detail _ .

           Sansa did, and didn’t. She reminded Margaery how Harry had ran into her her first official day in King’s Landing, and how he (essentially) asked her out then and there by giving Sansa his number. And then going shopping with Kella for something nice to wear, since Sansa hadn’t packed anything properly nice. It wasn’t a coincidence that Sansa forgot to mention the lingerie (the first foolish attempt at seduction? Sansa still hadn’t decided  _ what _ exactly compelled her to buy it. She was thankful Kella had been so open). Then there was the restaurant, and their conversations, and the food. Sansa also forgot to mention her uncle was there, on a date with his busty coworker. There was also the way Harry’s hand lingered on her own, and traveled up her thigh. Or the fact that Sansa was too occupied with thoughts of what her uncle was doing to really appreciate her own date.

           “Good thing mother nature swept in,” Margaery said with a wink. She had mentioned how her cousin – Elinor, maybe? Or maybe it was Alla – got her period the day of her wedding. And subsequently, all of her bridesmaids got it, too. They made it through the wedding without incident, but Elinor’s husband was rightfully peeved at the sudden change of their wedding night plans.

           Sansa smiled weakly. “Yeah. Though, between you and me, Harry was…” she shrugged. Harry was  _ alright _ , if she was being honest. And he was closer to her age than either Willas or Petyr. Surely an ideal match for Sansa, had she not been swept into Highgarden at Lysa’s dismissal of  _ dealing _ with her late sister’s children. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder at the sort of man she might have fancied and married had her parents not passed away. 

           Margaery laughed. “Not that good, then?” There was a bit of cream on her lip she swiped away with a tongue. Leaned in close, again, whispering, “Tell me, Sansa. Was he a good kisser?”

           Sansa shot back, waving her arms. “What? No– He– No, we didn’t kiss.”

           Her friend tilted her head, raising an eyebrow as if she knew otherwise. Which she might as well have: Sansa wasn’t helping her case by being so obviously guilty.

           “He…” Sansa began, chewing the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t look at her friend, gaze roaming over the small cafe. “He was okay, I think.”

           “I knew it!”

           “Please don’t tell Willas!”

           Margaery’s laughter filled the air with a warm sweetness not unlike their crepes. “Oh, trust me, Sansa, that’s not my secret to tell. Besides, if it was just a kiss, then there’s no harm in that. Here,” she said, grabbing hold of Sansa’s hand in a gesture meant to soothe. “Honestly? Willas has had some girlfriends before, and I’m sure they’ve kissed too.”

           “But we’re–" Sansa lowered her voice, until it was barely a push of breathe out of her lips "–going to be married soon.”

           “I know, girl.” She petted Sansa’s hand with her free one, like one might do with a frightened cat. “I promise. Sansa. Look at me. I promise you that Willas won’t break off the wedding because you went on a date, or shared a kiss.”

_ What if I did something so much, much worse? _

           Margaery added with a final pat, “And besides. The wedding’s in a week. If Will thinks he’s gonna mess up all of the work I’ve done…” She trailed it off with a light laugh, and Sansa followed along.

           That never bothered Sansa, not as much as it should. Being married the day after her eighteenth birthday. It almost seemed like a fantasy, once. Being swept off her feet, being loved and cared for by someone who actually  _ wanted _ her (and not at all being so  _ sick _ in love like her aunt Lysa. Sansa saw the massive ring on her aunt’s finger, and was glad her own was bare). It was always just a quiet displeasure that Sansa was willing to endure for the sake of belonging. Not until now. 

           Although, there were too many preparations for a sudden change of plans, anyway, regardless if Willas broke of their engagement because Sansa had kissed another boy. Not to mention whispered words behind hands:  _ Has she been unfaithful?  _

           Sansa couldn’t bear that shame. Or the guilt of shaming Willas, either.

           They left the bayside cafe, strolling through the streets of central King’s Landing. Sansa carefully avoided Guild Plaza where Harry had first saw her, and realized it wasn’t because of Harry that she was wary to go there. It was because Petyr had been there, too, after she had that mess with her gyro. And the restaurant Harry took her to; Petyr had been there, too. 

           She couldn’t help but wonder about coincidence.

           They walked along the beach, gossiping and laughing until their chins started to get sore. That didn’t stop them from continuing to talk, nor from daring the other to jump into the water. It was winter, and Sansa didn’t want to walk all the way back to the apartments soaking wet.

           Sansa didn’t know too much about King’s Landing to show Margaery around, except for looking up touristy things online and following the list. They walked the streets, taking pictures of and at the Sept of Baelor (which Sansa balked at the sheet size of it). It cost money to go inside, so they didn’t. 

           They tried on clothes in the shops. Makeup, too, and sunglasses and handbags. There was an entire street lined with stores, and so many people crowding the street it was difficult to squeeze by. Sansa was glad of it when she spied a bridal store, saw the glittering white dresses in the window, and felt something uneasy. Margaery was too busy pulling her forward past a circle admiring dancing buskers.

           “Do you  _ have  _ to go so soon?” Sansa said, staring up at the sky. It was winter, but the sun was still bright and warm. She loved her friend (soon-to-be sister-in-law) to death. And right now, she loved how she forgot about the  _ things _ that had happened the night before. It wasn’t until now, with the heavy weight of goodbye hovering above them, did Sansa’s mind remember.

           Margaery sighed. “I know. But the next train is too late, and I already promised grandmother that I’d be home to take her to the doctor’s.” She pouted, not at all ready to say goodbye, either.

           “I wouldn’t want to keep Olenna waiting.”

           Margaery made an  _ Oh I know _ face, and they both laughed. Olenna was, admittedly, the coolest older person Sansa knew, especially compared to some of the Madames at school. She once dropped bottle rockets from the highest window of Highgarden, and through flattery blamed it on her friends. But when kept waiting, Olenna’s ranting would never end.

           Reluctantly, they wove their way north to the train station, stopping only once at a sweets store. “For when I get hungry on the way back,” Margaery explained, even though Highgarden wasn’t that far and they had just ate a late lunch. Still, Sansa couldn’t help the pull of lemon drops and wedge-shaped sugary lemons. Margaery snuck a huge chocolate in the shape of a rose in her mouth when the staff wasn’t looking, choosing to keep mute as she paid and waited for the chocolate to melt. Sansa’s bag was just as full as Margaery’s when they left.

           At the station, they hugged goodbye, with plans to meet again next week before the wedding. “I  _ promise _ you’ll love everything I’ve picked out for you!” Margaery said, her arms still loosely around Sansa. She leaned in with a whisper, “I think  _ I’m _ more excited than you are, Sansa. My brother won’t admit he’s excited, but he is.” She sighed happily. “Oh, Will doesn’t realize how lucky he is.”

           The smile Sansa gave her felt like a lie.

* * *

           Sansa sat the bag onto the counter with a heave. 

           The apartments were blessedly empty. Neither Petyr nor Kella nor the movers were around, though from one glance at the study Sansa saw they had been busy. Half of the boxes were gone, making the room feel so much bigger already. Most of it had been Lysa’s old artifacts, and Robert’s, too. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder at the implication of getting rid of his late wife’s and child’s things.

           She read through the recipe on her phone again (Sansa, embarrassed to admit it, couldn’t figure out how to get the printer in the study to work). It seemed simple enough, and the grocer’s down the street had everything except for the exact pasta type. 

           It wasn’t a  _ gift _ , per se (and not at all in response to the gifts they shared last night). Sansa couldn’t help but feel that in the week she had been here, her and Petyr hadn’t done anything properly of an uncle and niece. Granted, they only just met a week ago. But Sansa had the need to keep whatever relationship they had level. And besides, no one could say no to food.

           It wasn’t a gift, but it was...what, exactly?

_ It’s for when I am married _ , she told herself, washing and preparing the vegetables as she waited for the water to boil. That’s all it was. That’s all  _ this _ was: this teasing with her uncle, this mockery of a domestic life. Sansa – being almost eighteen – hadn’t much experience in any of the wifely duties expected of her. And Sansa – being married in one week – kept telling herself this to make it easier to swallow.

           Willas was always busy with either work, or reading (for work), and always a little uncertain in showing affection because of their age difference. Sansa once tried to sneak up on him in the library, flinging her arms around him and pressing her cheek against his. His soft curls tickled. Willas jumped in his wheelchair, and (kindly) shoved Sansa aside. He placed a chaste kiss to the back of her hand and gave her a small smile.

           He  _ did _ love her, she knew. And Margaery (and Loras) would always assuage her fears. Only, Sansa sometimes felt like he didn’t love her. That he didn’t love her the way Sansa wanted him to: with all of his heart, and with a dopey smile every time she walked into the room (that was because of all of the cheesy romances she watched).. Or if he did love her, truly, Willas was only waiting until she was of age to show it.

           Her knuckle scraped the zester. She hissed, licking the well of blood forming. It stung from the lemon peel. 

_ It’s going to be okay _ , she told herself for the umpteenth time, bandaging her finger and testing the bend.  _ I’m going to be happy with Willas _ .

           Sansa didn’t want to think anymore, so she lost herself in the cooking. Checking the pot of water constantly (she kept thinking she heard it boiling). Toasting the breadcrumbs, cooking the veggies, making sure there weren’t any stray seeds in the lemon halves. And finally tossing it all together in a pan, proud that none of it spilled over onto the immaculate counter.

           The sun was nearly set, casting the buildings in either brilliant orange or pitch darkness. Sansa arranged the place settings on the island, carefully making sure to avoid the middle seat (Sansa could only  _ imagine _ with wicked clarity would Petyr would do should she have sat them side by side. And Sansa hated that she could imagine it. That a budding ache formed at the idea). Petyr only said he would be home early today – though compared to his previous showings of ten, eleven, twelve at night, ‘early’ could have been anything. 

           From helping Kella, Sansa knew where enough of the things were: plates and utensils and napkins. Even wine glasses and the small fridge of drinks. Sansa (legally) couldn’t drink, so she poured water for herself and left the bottle on the counter. She hoped that’s what Petyr would like to drink. 

           Sansa plucked off the small leaves of mint, collected them in a pile on the corner of the cooking board. Something told her fingers to bring a leaf to her nose, to nibble at it. It tasted like what Petyr’s lips would have tasted, if he closed that hardly-an-inch between them gap last night. The taste of it alone in her mouth sent an unkind shiver down her body. And an unkind thought: would Petyr’s lips leave traces of mint as he kissed a path down her mouth, to her-

           She shook her head. 

           On cue from devious gods, the elevator rumbled up the building. Sansa was suddenly stricken with the idea that Petyr wouldn’t be happy with her for cooking dinner. Was this assuming a certain closeness between them? But after what they showed each other last night, it only seemed apt that they share more than base desires. A meal seemed both nothing and too much.

           There was no going back when the doors slid open with that familiar  _ ding _ .

           “Oh.”

           Sansa turned, plastering a smile on her face. She hoped it wasn’t too sweet. 

           Petyr was dressed like always, and the sight of him in the suit was too perfect. She wondered if he tailored his clothes – they fit him exactly, not like some of the suits she’d seen men wearing, with pants legs way too big or sleeves too long. 

           She brought her stare back up to him, that smile still tugging her mouth. “Hi. Um. Welcome.” Why was she stuttering all of a sudden? “I hope you don’t mind, but I made dinner? And I, um, if you haven’t eaten yet I was hoping maybe we could?”

Petyr seemed to realize that there was something else in the room aside from her. He looked over at the sink filled with dirty dishes, to the pot with leftover pasta (there was so much of it), and finally the two sets of dinner sitting on the counter, with a second plate sitting between them with garnishings. His gaze finished the circuit, finding her again. There was a smile on his face, too. “It smells delicious. You made it yourself?”

           Sansa beamed at the compliment. “Yes, actually. I just followed a recipe but…” she trailed off.

                       They sat down and added the cheese, extra lemon, and mint to their pasta (would Petyr presume something about the mint? Or was he too busy thinking of something else?). Sansa knew it was good – she couldn’t help but take a small sampling bowl earlier, and then a second because it was  _ that good _ – and watched Petyr from the side of her eye. He seemed to like it, too. Good.

           They ate through half of it in silence before Sansa started to worry about the quietness. She had the sudden urge to fill it with something else; if only because she was afraid Petyr could hear her heart.

           “Did you become a lawyer because of your parents?” An innocuous enough first question. That was something she knew happened a lot, at least. Children doing what was expected of them of their parents, not necessarily where their hearts lay. Gods knew if Sansa was intimately acquainted with that feeling.

           Petyr ruminated as he chewed. “No. I actually don’t remember what my parents were. They died when I was very young.” 

           “Oh,” was all that Sansa could manage to say at first. She was  _ dying _ to ask more –  _ how young were you _ , and  _ is that why you and Kella are so close _ , and  _ does that gaping hole ever fill in _ – but she knew better than to pry at a wound. 

           Petyr, maybe having read her mind, said, “I’m sorry. About your parents.”

           “It’s okay.” It wasn’t. 

           She twisted the fork around the pasta, twisting her thoughts. Sansa wanted to yell at her uncle, her aunt, for all the heartbreak they put Sansa and her siblings through. Sansa hadn’t had contact with most of them; the last she heard was Bran was hospitalized, and Rickon was still with him. There wasn’t news that Bran had passed away, which Sansa took to mean he was alive still. Arya was...somewhere. And Sansa was here.

_ Why did you willingly break apart my family _ .

           She wanted to confront her uncle when she first got here. To ask him in lieu of Lysa what made Sansa and her siblings so  _ undesired _ that they not only were thrown away, but split up. Sansa choked down the thought that her uncle was responsible for her parents’ death, too. That would be too cruel to assume they were responsible for everything.

           Only, this conversation was weighing too heavily. Sansa needed to change it, else she drown in her self-made sorrow. “What’s the wildest case you’ve worked on?”

           Petyr didn’t see the question coming, either. He lowered the fork, pasta still intertwined in the tongs. “Hm.” He stared at the wall behind Sansa as he thought, licking his lips as he did. She tried not to look at that. “I don’t think there’s  _ one _ case that tops them all. Although a coworker of mind did have to settle a custody over a parrot once.”

           Sansa cocked her head, not sure if she heard him right. “A...parrot?”

           Petyr finally ate the bite off his fork, nodding. “King’s Landing is full of some very interesting people. And some very dumb ones.”

           They made idle conversation, nothing at all serious: what wild things Sansa had done (which was nothing, except for the thing she had done last night); if Sansa was liking the city; last movie watched. Simple things. Impersonal things. 

           It was nice getting to know Petyr. And if she ignored certain memories and fantasies, she could pretend like they  _ were  _ a normal niece and uncle doing normal niece and uncle things. 

           Except, Sansa was too aware of the empty chair between them. She couldn’t help but wonder if Petyr noticed it, too. Saw it instead as a forced distance on her part. That what they did last night was  _ too much _ – and in some ways, it was. In no world should it have been okay for an uncle to barge into his niece’s room and  _ demand _ to see her private parts. And then, get himself off as she touched herself. And in no world should it have been so  _ exciting _ for Sansa. To see how wild Petyr got from her stunt in his office. Even the momentary dread at his second gift (which she couldn’t bring herself to use yet. It felt like an admission of what  _ this _ was. At least, a more finite admission). She wouldn’t be in the wrong to ask for more room. She wouldn’t be wrong to ask him to  _ stop _ .

           If Petyr did think that, though, he didn’t make mention of it. “Are you excited for next week, Sansa?”

           The pasta froze inches from her mouth.  _ He knows _ . Sansa simultaneously felt her fingers clench around the metal, and loosen. And then she remembered her own lie. And remembered to chew the pasta first without speaking through a mouthful of food (always the lady). “Oh, yes. I’m undecided as of now. Though I haven’t quite decided what I want to major in.” At least, she hoped this was the lie Petyr was referring to.

           “A word from the wise,” he said, spearing a noodle. Bits of cheese flew off. “Stay away from law. It doesn’t do you any good knowing how corrupt people can be.”

           Was he talking about the people he worked with – coworkers and clients – or himself? Sansa felt she knew the answer already. 

           They finished their food, sipping slowly on the rest of their drinks (or in Sansa’s case, water). She couldn’t help but think Petyr didn’t want this comfortable dinner to end, either. “Do you have tomorrow off?” 

           Petyr shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I’ve a big case coming up soon, and there’s a lot of details that need to be ironed out for it.” He took a small sip of wine, though his eyes didn’t leave hers. Not roaming her body, like they usually did. But just staring, admiring whatever it was he saw in her. It was better (and worse) when they were eating – too focused on the food and not this  _ shadowy thing _ they were currently tip-toeing around. Was he expecting her to make the next move? Waiting for her to barge into his room and demand he show her everything?

           Sansa looked away first. “Oh, that’s too bad.” And then with her fingers of her free hand twisted in the hem of her shirt beneath the counter, she asked, “What is it about? Your case?” She knew he was a lawyer, and apparently a good one to be able to afford an apartment like this. Sansa didn’t have to know anything about money to understand the sheer exorbitant value of a place like this, in a city like King’s Landing.

           He took another sip of wine (or perhaps it was the same sip, long and slow and dragged out). His long fingers were slowly twisting the stem, as if debating what to say. “It’s confidential, I’m afraid,” Petyr finally said. When he saw Sansa’s deflation, he added, “It involves someone who, let’s say, thought the law didn’t apply to them. Only, there’s been new evidence that might say otherwise.” 

           “Oh,” Sansa said. “That sounds exciting.”

           Another small sip of wine and a shrug. “I suppose. What are your plans next Monday?”

           Next Monday? She would be eighteen, and waking up from a blissful wedding night. She would be Sansa Tyrell. “I’ll be back in Highgarden. Why?”

           Petyr set the glass down gently. It didn’t make a sound on the granite. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

           That was all he seemed to be willing to share in the business of his job. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder how horrible the case must be, if it was so confidential and Petyr couldn’t even spare her more than the smallest nibble of information. Was it a serial murderer? Was it a family that kept their children locked inside their house for years? Was it a man who abused and murdered his lover in a crime of passion?

           It was probably none of those. Still, the mystery of it all intrigued Sansa. 

           Petyr checked his watch. Sansa remembered that one morning when she touched his hand, how her tummy fluttered at that brief contact. It seemed to  _ scandalous _ at the time. And now, look at what they’ve done. That touch with the smell of eggs and mushrooms in the air seemed like  _ nothing _ compared to waking up with his come on her. 

           “Thank you for dinner,” he said with a smile, a genuine one (she thought). “It was delicious.”

           A warmth unlike the one that filled her yesterday spread throughout Sansa. She felt her cheeks flush at the compliment. “You’re welcome. It was nothing, really.” 

           He opened his mouth, closed it. A creeping smirk tugged on the corner of his lip. Disappeared. Opened it again, “You’ll make a fine wife one day, I’m sure.”

           Sansa felt her blood freeze. She knew he didn’t know, but,  _ did _ he know? Did Petyr somehow figure out Sansa’s truth? Were her lies unconvincing? (Margaery often teased her that the Madames could see right through her). Was that why he was so comfortable with this space between them, when last night he had barely been able to keep his lips from brushing her. She had felt a finger twirl in her hair for a moment. Or perhaps she only wished it had.

           She brushed it off, forced herself to take in small breaths (though her lungs felt completely devoid of air). Of course he didn't know. If he did, Sansa thought Petyr would have the decency to understand that she was  _ taken _ , instead of doing  _ that _ . She mindlessly twirled an invisible wedding band around her ring finger. “Thank you, Petyr. I...I hope so.”

           He smiled, only Sansa thought it might have been sad.

           “Do you have plans tonight?” Sansa began, pushing around stray bits of pasta and peas around on her plate. Without looking up and without giving Petyr the room to answer, she added, “I heard it might rain. And I… I thought we could…” She caught on  _ spend time together _ , because she knew Petyr would take it the wrong way. Though,  _ would _ it be so wrong to have another bout of desire like last night? The answer was obvious: of course it was.  _ I’m to be married in a week _ . “...I thought we could, I don’t know, watch a movie. Unless you’ve work to do!” She countered herself. Petyr said he was swamped with this case, after all. Why would he want to spend time with her?

           Only, Petyr had his head propped on one hand, staring at her. His own plate was clean. “Of course I’m busy, Sansa.” She felt her heart drop, sink, tumble all the floors down the building to the cracked sidewalks below.

           “I understand–"

           “But,” he interrupted. “I think I could find time enough for  _ one _ movie.”

           “Oh. Oh! Great!” Sansa smiled, widely, unexpectedly happy.

           Across from her, Petyr’s expression froze between delight and wonder. It was almost the same look Petyr gave her last night, only without eyes shadowed in darkness and lust. Something like disbelief? Something like awe, like he was mesmerized by the sight of Sansa smiling.

           Like how she always imagined Willas staring at her.

                       Petyr stood then, collecting Sansa’s plate and glass. She moved to stand, to take her own dirty dishes back in an effort not to seem useless. “No, stay,” he said, demanded. Sansa slowly lowered herself back into her seat. “It’s only fair that since you made dinner, I should clean up.”

           It was an innocent thing, but somehow Sansa couldn’t feel there was a hidden meaning behind it.

           She only knew her uncle for a week, but  _ of course _ there was a hidden meaning behind everything he did, he said.

           She watched him in silence, wishing she still had her glass to sip on for want of something to do. It was...surprisingly intimate (or so she thought, she wasn’t too experience in any of this. Intimacy. Relationships. Sex. It was all so new, so exciting. And terrifying). Sansa watched him, the way his dress shirt clung to his body (he’d carefully tossed his jacket off before eating). The small curls at the nape of his neck. That belt he slithered free just before undoing his pants, pulling out his cock, stroking himself.  _ Touch yourself, sweetling _ .

           She stood up, her chair scraping against the wooden floor. “I’m going to go find something to watch.”

           If Petyr turned to watch her go, Sansa didn’t have the courage to look back. That, and she was sure her face was bright red; damning evidence to the memory she couldn’t rid herself of. 

           The couch embraced her as she sat down. Sansa quieted the TV. Water on glass, fabric on glass, quiet shuffling of steps. She listened to Petyr move from where she sat on the couch. He  _ had _ to be smirking all the while, that way only half of his lips tilted upward, and the way it made his cheeks asymmetrical. That knowing glint to his eyes. Sansa mindlessly flipped through the movies on the TV, not able to settle on anything in particular. Nor was she able to settle the butterflies in her stomach. She shouldn’t be so flustered, but gods-damn it if she was.

           “Have you settled on something?” he called from the kitchen. 

           Sansa blinked, trying to focus her gaze and mind and thoughts on the television and the feel of the remote in her fingers. “Not yet,” she called back. Petyr didn’t reply, but she heard his footsteps fade down the hall and finally the quiet  _ click _ of his door closing. 

           What if she followed him? Did the same as he did to her (twice, she remembered). This was a game they were playing. An adult game, with consequences made abundantly clear: on Petyr’s end, she was still legally a child, and any  _ actual _ touching would have him sent straight to prison (or worse); on Sansa’s end, she was (unofficially) engaged to the eldest Tyrell son, a marriage she vaguely knew had implications more than the flutter of her heart. 

           It was a very tenuous game they played. Sansa should stop. 

           If she did sneak into his room, what would she even do? Ask him to undress so she could stare at him like he did her. Tell him to touch himself. Watch torn between the way his hand moved up and around his cock, and the way his eyes quietly demanded her to do the same. They couldn’t touch, officially, unless she figured out a way for Petyr to touch her, taste her without breaking the rule. There was a way, she knew. She wondered if Petyr knew it, or was waiting for her to make the next step in their game.

           Gods, how Sansa knew she should stop.

           The other side of the couch dipped down. “Have you settled, yet, sweetling?”

           She hadn’t, but Sansa couldn’t say the truth: No, I was too busy thinking about all of the horrible things we did, and how much I want them to continue. Her fingers stopped flipping through, settling on a random movie.  _ A Night to Forget _ . Sansa vaguely remembered the trailer for it when it came out last year. Some romance movie based off a book. She and Margaery were going to go, planned to sneak out (it came out on Valentine’s which was on Wednesday or Thursday). Except they got caught and had to clean all of the erasers on the fourth floor. Sansa urged her friend to go with Megga for fear the next time they got caught would be worse. Margaery and Megga hadn’t, a first.

           “Are you alright with this?” Sansa asked, not sure if Petyr was the sort of man to balk and throw temper-tantrums at chick flicks.

           He only shrugged. “If it’s what you want to watch.” A smile, hardly pure, though none ever were she thought. Sansa hit play, but couldn’t keep staring at her uncle. At the loose shirt he wore, showing off bare arms. Sansa traced the path of the veins down to his hands. The collar reveal a peek of hair. Petyr wore jeans (not what she would consider comfy clothes), and Sansa wished she had seen him walk in. 

           “I’m cold,” she said to no one in particular, moving to grab a blanket and tossing it over her legs.

           The movie opened with the main character’s friends trying to convince her to forget her horrible ex and have a fun girls’ night out. Sansa was suddenly wishing she had landed on a horror movie instead.

           During the scene where the main character and her friends are dancing and enjoying themselves, Petyr asked, “DId you enjoy my gift, sweetling?”

           The butterflies in her stomach flew about wildly. It was something about the innocuity of it all. The  _ gift _ could have (should have) been something like a new sweater, or a ticket to the movies, or even a bar of chocolate. The gift  _ should not _ have been her uncle, inches away, pleasuring himself at the sight of her fingers dipping into herself. Or the warm feel of his seed on her stomach, the echo of his grunt as he came on top of her. Or the devilish way he smiled as she undid the ribbon and tore away the paper.

           And, Sansa couldn’t deny the flutter at the use of that nickname.  _ Sweetling _ . It was  _ endearing _ , she thought. Something a kind uncle might actually call his niece. If only those two syllables didn’t bring back the way his voice was dangerously heavy with need. The way his own fingers had to clutched tightly the sheets to prevent them from dipping inside her.

_ Touch yourself, sweetling _ .

           She squeezed her legs together. Gods, this was a bad idea. At dinner, at least there had been the physical chair between them, guarding any impure actions as they ate. Here, on this sofa, there was nothing but air and heavy longing.

           Vaguely, she remembered Petyr had asked a question. Sansa licked her lips, trying to figure whether to lie or not. “I… It was very  _ thoughtful _ .” Such empty words.

           “Yes, I try every now and then.” He smiled, his gaze on the movie. Was he actually watching it? “But did you  _ enjoy _ it?”

           “I...no. I…” Sansa stammered with the revelation caught in her throat:  _ I’m not sure how to use it _ . “Not yet, but. Maybe when...you’re not too busy with work?” The rest was left to their imaginations – one Sansa knew Petyr was enjoying immensely. She was putting off the inevitable regarding Petyr’s move in this wicked game of theirs, and they both knew it. Petyr still had the upper-hand.

           In the movie, some boy was trying to work his way into the main character's dress (Sansa kept trying to catch the girl’s name but missed it). The girl was reluctant at first, but her friends jumped in and  _ literally _ punched him. Which caught the attention of security.

           “What about you?” Sansa asked, adjusting the blanket over herself. She couldn’t help but think this was the same tactic she used last night. The allusion of protection from what Petyr wanted to do. He glanced at her, eyebrows drawn. “Did you enjoy your date? I saw that you and–" she scrunched her face trying to remember, "–Myranda, I saw that you two left early.”

           Petyr’s eyebrows moved from confused to curious. “We did. Would you like me to share all of the sordid details? I can tell you where we did it, and how many times–"

           Sansa clapped her hands over her ears. Through it, she heard Petyr laugh.

           The girl in the movie lost her friends. She went outside, feeling uncomfortable in her low dress and high heels. 

           “I can tell you mine,” Sansa said, lowering her hands.

           “Your…?” Petyr began. He turned himself so he was leaning angled against the arm and the back, one arm resting along the back of the couch, one leg crossed over the other. It was so casual, and yet Sansa couldn’t stop staring.

           “My  _ own  _ sordid details.” She tried to remember how much she revealed to Petyr about her date with Harry, and whether or not Petyr would even believe her when she said (lied) about all of her other boyfriends. 

           Except, Petyr  _ did _ look peeved. He was digging the pads of his fingers into the couch arm. 

           Interesting. Sansa knew he was  _ jealous _ during the date (she sometimes heard his growl, louder and in her ear, and often as he touched her. In her dreams, of course). But Sansa was surprised the allusion of Harry did  _ this _ to Petyr. 

           Sansa knew she would never bring up Willas. Gods, what kind of things would Petyr do to her, to him, if Petyr knew she was engaged? 

           They continued watching the movie. The girl was in someone’s car now, but it didn’t look hostile. Neither of them were talking save for the quiet directions interspersed between the music and the rumble of the car. Streets passed by. There were flashes of memories – a boy and the main girl, slowly falling out of love until she was sobbing on a bathroom floor somewhere. Suddenly, she leapt out of the car and threw up on the side of the street.

           “Eugh.” Petyr made a face. He was still angled facing her, and the hand that had been digging into the couch was now propping his head up. His free hand sat beside him, trailing nonsensical shapes into the cushion.

           The man (Sansa realized that the person who was driving the main girl home was definitely older than her. Though not as old as Petyr. And not her ex, not from the way he patiently waited for her to clean herself) helped her back into his car. Eventually they made it to a building, one which the girl was staring at with worry. Sansa understood that her friends left her and she was hoping they had gone back home. The man followed the girl into an apartment building. She knocked on the door: no one answered. He then (very kindly) offered his place to wash up and wait for her friends. 

           “Of course…” Petyr  _ tsk _ ed. 

           Sansa looked over at him. “What?”

           That earlier jealousy was gone (or at least, reined in). Petyr was smiling sheepishly, motioning to the TV with his chin. “Of course she happens to get locked out. And of course he just happens to live nearby…”

           Sansa pursed her lips. “And?”

           “ _ And _ it’s too coincidental, don’t you think? Real life doesn’t work that way.”

           “It’s not real life though. It’s a  _ movie _ , Petyr.”

           The look he gave her said that he wasn’t buying it. So much for him being into chick flicks.

           She shrugged, gathering the blanket in her arms into a makeshift pillow. Sansa buried her chin into it. “Sometimes that stuff happens… Two people happen to meet each other  _ coincidentally _ , and they fall in love. Besides, it’s a chick flick, what else would you expect.”

           Petyr’s smile faltered for half a heartbeat before he said, “I suppose so.”

           The movie cut to the girl snooping around the man’s apartment a little (where did he go? Sansa missed the cue), before she got into the shower. Thankfully, the camera didn’t focus too much on her – no slow panning up the legs to her butt, or shots where people would analyze frame by frame whether it  _ was _ a nipple or a trick of the light. Just a girl, with a lot of anxiety and angst, trying to will them down the drain.

           Still, Sansa shied away from the TV. She reached over to the coffee table, keeping one hand pressed against the blanket over her chest, and plucked the bag of sweets. She plopped a sugary lemon wedge into her mouth, offering Petyr the bag. His gaze moved from the TV to her then finally the bag. If he realized it was  _ all _ lemon sweets, Petyr was kind enough not to tease her about it. It wasn’t Sansa fault lemon-flavored  _ anything _ tasted so good. It was something she missed: there weren’t any fruit trees in King’s Landing, and barely any trees at all. Sansa sometimes entertained the idea of staying here, just a little longer. But she convinced herself it was the lack of trees that made King’s Landing unsuitable.

           Petyr’s fingers wavered over the opening of the bag, silently looking at the not-really assortment of candies. He had a choice of lemon, lemon, or lemon. Sansa caught the slight chuckle at the  _ variety _ , plucking a lemon drop from the top of the bag. He placed it gingerly between teeth, leaving lips parted as his tongue swiped at the candy back into his mouth.

           Sansa felt a jolt run through her veins.

           He smiled, rolling the candy from one side of his mouth to the other. “Thank you, sweetling.”

           She blinked back to look at him, surreptitiously pressing her legs together. “Of c– You’re welcome.”

           The girl was scrolling through her phone (it had died at the club), and now she was scrolling through missed texts and calls from her friend. She waited for the man to return, though there was doubt forming that he wasn’t telling her  _ something _ .

           “Are you cold?”

           Petyr looked over at her. The candy softly knocked against his teeth as he shifted it from side to side. Sansa couldn’t concentrate to much on the movie – she saw the way Petyr’s tongue deftly captured the sweet, and couldn’t help imagine what else he wanted to taste.

           Couldn’t help but imagine it was Sansa he was savoring.

           “I’m alright, Sansa. What about you?”

           Instinct had her shaking her head, but Sansa stopped the movement. She lifted the blanket a few inches from her side, as if in invitation. “Yes, actually. Did you want to share the blanket?”

           “Sansa.”

           She looked over at him. Petyr’s mossy eyes were narrowed; the hand resting in the abyss of cushion between them was clenched so tight the knuckles were white. Had it always been clenched? And had it always been that close to her? Sansa glanced back up. “What? Is something wrong?” Part of her wished she had taken a lemon drop, too. Try and play him at his own game, and see where that led them. Only, this was how Sansa was going to move her piece.  _ Check _ .

           “We can’t touch each other.” A pause, one where Sansa knew Petyr meant to restate the fact that she was still (legally) a child. “You know that.”

           “Yes, but…” Sansa nibbled on her bottom lip. Somehow, she would have expected Petyr to jump at the opportunity. It’s what he was  _ begging _ to do last night. And the day before that. And the night when he touched himself thinking she was asleep. Maybe that was the problem: it wasn’t late enough for that devil to appear. Unless she coaxed it out… “It’s what family does, when they’re cold. We’re  _ family _ , after all. And if we’re  _ just _ sharing a blanket, then there’s nothing wrong with that.”

           Either Petyr didn’t feel like arguing, or he was curious to see how Sansa’s move was going to play out. Sansa heard the silent  _ clack _ of her piece in this wicked game of theirs. His clenched hand unfurled, fingers slowly patting the cushion beside him. Sansa could still back out –  _ Just kidding! _ or something – but she didn’t as she sidled over that endless chasm of a few feet.

           “Keep the blanket,” he said when Sansa motioned to drape it across both of them. At her confusion, Petyr added, “I’m alright. It’s not that cold.”

           It was a lie, one that Sansa parsed out as she quietly brought her thigh (shielded by the blanket) against his, her shoulder leaning in the crook of his arm that he slung over the back of the couch again. This might be something a niece and uncle do (or even father and daughter). But nieces and uncles didn’t have the weight of seeing each other pleasuring themselves. Nieces shouldn’t know what their uncles’ cocks looked like, or how a vein in his neck pulsated as he neared his orgasm, or how sticky and warm his come was.

           Sansa sighed at the memory. Pressed her side just a little bit harder against him. Petyr gave a small growl of  _ Don’t _ , which only made Sansa snuggle closer in a defiant  _ Make me _ .

           On her free shoulder, Sansa felt the lightest brush of his fingers. Petyr wrapped a lock of it around one, tugging gently. Reiterating his  _ Don’t _ .

           “I’m just cold,” she reasoned weakly. Sansa was far from cold: a fire was starting to consume her mind (granted, this unaccounted lust had began slowly eating away her logic days ago. Sansa didn’t  _ let _ it consume until recently). Even the tips of her fingers and toes were warm.

           “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Sansa looked up at Petyr, who wasn’t at all interested in the movie any more (there were voices and a crescending soundtrack, but that’s all Sansa could make of it). The tip of his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were unashamedly tracing the lump of her body beneath the blanket – he’d already seen most of it already. Sansa hadn’t been wrong in thinking Petyr was memorizing the shape of her last night.

           As to his question: she wasn’t sure. Hadn’t been all week. This was the  _ experience _ she wanted, if not that allusion of reason to do these things. 

           Sansa knew one day she would look back at  _ this _ , and either miss or regret what she was doing. 

           It came out of nowhere: sex. 

           It had just been a brief touch of hands at first, as the girl realized she could forget all of her worries if she just let them go for a night. A touch of hands. And then a touch of lips. A kiss that went on forever, their souls intertwining from that single, simple contact. A missing half found in a mirrored lonely heart. Pulling back, the man whispered  _ Are you sure _ , before the girl gave in completely with her admission of another kiss. And then... Sansa gasped as she watched.

           Tried as she might, Sansa couldn’t stop staring at the movie. At the way their hands never stopped exploring the other’s body. At the loving way he touched her, teased her, tasted her, and she (though she only knew him for a few hours) cried out with a smile on her lips. 

           If Sansa squinted, the man was Petyr, and the girl was her. They even had the hair right.

           “I take it you like what you’re seeing, sweetling?”

           Sansa jumped, half-forgetting the person sitting beside her. Petyr’s wicked grin was back – those reluctant questions of minutes ago completely forgotten. The devil was back.

           “I…” She licked her lips. Perhaps it was the movie that brought to life the wicked thought (or perhaps it always existed inside of her, waiting to be uncovered and devoured). Sansa tore her gaze away from the sight of the man languidly thrusting inside of the girl, to Petyr. She felt him tug again on that strand of hair wrapped around a finger. He  _ technically _ wasn’t touching her. 

           Sansa continued, “As long as we don’t touch, right?”

           Petyr tilted his head. The crooked smile remained. 

_ Good gods, what am I doing? _ She felt her mind fighting against her desire. Maybe if it wasn’t for the constant stream of warmth seeping from Petyr’s thigh, or the quiet moans beneath a shuddering violin playing in the background, Sansa might have realized the implication of what she was about to do. A pity she left her reasons somewhere not in King’s Landing. With two fingers, she plucked at the blanket above her stomach. “As long as I  _ only _ touch the blanket, and not you, then it’s fine?”

           Petyr’s eyes widened as realization (or just a terrible fantasy) hit him. “Sweetling, what you are planning…?”

           Nothing good. 

           Carefully and following this gossamer logic, Sansa shucked the blanket off of her and laid it atop of Petyr. Petyr, meanwhile, let her, curious where this was going to go. And turned on, evidenced by the jut of his jeans between thighs. Was it because of the movie, too, or had it just been the proximity to Sansa? Or, had he just been playing their previous encounter over and over again, praying to the gods that something  _ more _ would come of this?

           Granted, Sansa hadn’t much experience, and since Petyr couldn’t guide her with his hands as per his rule… With a deep breath, Sansa hoisted herself on top of her uncle, knees straddling him. At full height, the join of her legs was only a few inches away from where his cock lay beneath the blanket. 

           Petyr’s hands shot out to hold her, to help her, but he remembered his own rule just as the heat of his skin caressed her bare arms. It was a dance, trying to find a place to settling his hands without breaking and laws, real or otherwise. He decided on laying them on his thighs. Still, Sansa could see the wriggle of veins as Petyr fought against a base urge to touch her.

           He slowly dragged his tongue from one corner of his smirk to the other. Eyes even more unashamedly drinking her in. Sansa had changed into comfortable clothes: a loose t-shirt, shorts, socks. Not the same shorts from last night. And to her dismay (or unrealized luck?) Sansa had foregone a bra. Petyr’s gaze were stuck on her breasts, tracing the outline of them over and over. Silently  _ begging _ her to take off the offending shirt. And if she did, might as well remove the shorts, too.

           Sansa didn’t, though. This was her move, not Petyr’s. Damned be her future self when he would retaliate for this.

           “I want you to show me something. Teach me another lesson.” Damned be her present self, too.

           Petyr eventually found his way up from her breasts, taking his time all the while. He leaned back into the couch, stroking his cock once before lacing fingers atop his stomach. Sansa caught that, and she caught the way his smile tilted. Petyr blinked at her slowly through half-closed eyes. “Oh? I thought I had taught you everything last night.”

           There was so much, too much, that he  _ hadn’t _ , and they both knew it. 

           “That was last night,” Sansa clarified, hoping not to sound too  _ desperate _ . A numbing ache sat between her legs all day, one that she tried to ignore. Still, it persisted. And still, it demanded to be taken care of.

           “And tonight…”

           Sansa stared at the peek of his tongue. Remembered how the man in the movie languidly stroked around and around the girl’s nipples. Trailing down to her core, before dipping in and devouring her. A blink, and Sansa saw Petyr’s head between her thighs, his wicked smile disappearing as he tasted her. Her core throbbed.

           No. By their rule, Petyr couldn’t do that.

           “I want you to touch me.”

           He tilted his head in a  _ Didn’t I just say…? _ motion. Sansa interrupted him by placing her hand just to the side of the bulge of his cock. Petyr hissed, whatever retort instantly forgotten. She continued, “I know you want to touch me, too.” Slowly, she crept her hands towards his need. Petyr’s attention was focused there, quietly urging her on with a slight roll of hips. “But, like we agreed, it has to be through the blanket.”

           “That’s not as fun…”

           Was Petyr willing to throw away that semblance of a rule – and the worse consequences behind it – for a single night of touching and tasting? Sansa wondered how deep the shadowy tendrils of depravity held Petyr in their grasp. Or, if perhaps there was nothing but a depraved  _ thing _ in the shell of a man.

           Sansa found his cock then, resting her palm across the length of him. Petyr released a cracked breath. His need pulsed beneath her skin through the fabric. As her fingers languidly moved up, she said, “Well, if it’s not as fun, then we don’t have to do it.”

           His eyes shot up towards hers. “Fine. Do you want to go first, sweetling, or shall I?”

           She ignored the fact that she hadn’t offered to touch him, but Sansa knew (deep down) that she would have either way. It was  _ curiosity _ , nothing more.

           “You do me first.” She pretended to ignore the way his smile seemed to grow more devilish. Sansa added with a waver of uncertainty to her voice, “And if you do it good, I’ll touch you.”

           “Is that a  _ challenge _ , Sansa?”

_ Might be _ . She didn’t say anything.

           Her fingers trembled less this time when Sansa maneuvered her shorts and underwear off one leg, not bothering to remove them completely. Still, she took her time finding Petyr’s eyes: dark, heavy, hardly blinking as he stared at her core. It was different without the help of faint moonlight. Sansa could pretend that hungry look she’d seen had been a trick of the light. That Petyr hadn’t transformed into something so base, so primal, he was constantly keeping himself in check from having her completely.

           “Please,” she said, trying to divert Petyr’s attention from staring. 

           “Anything, sweetling.”

           Carefully, Petyr slithered a hand beneath the blanket. Testing out the movements of his fingers (motions and positions Sansa had used on herself not even twenty-four hours earlier. Right in front of him). Petyr pursed his lips, obviously disappointed as Sansa was at the  _ actual _ touch. But right now, Sansa just needed to get rid of this ache. 

           She didn’t want to admit it, but right now Sansa wanted Petyr. 

           When Petyr nodded  _ Ready _ , Sansa carefully lowered herself down onto his awaiting hand. With each closing inch, she forgot about the butterflies that had once filled her stomach, had forgotten  _ who _ Petyr was and  _ why _ she was even here in the first place. 

           The moment she felt the hardness of his fingers through the blanket, Sansa could think of nothing else.

           “Fuck,” he swore. “I can feel how wet you are already.” 

           His words sent a new surge of need down to her core. Sansa’s hips buckled, and she gripped onto the couch for support. She tried not to move, letting him explore her. Petyr trailed a single finger along the slit of her opening, made wide by the way her legs were straddling his. Up and down the length of her, not at all daring to dip into her yet. 

           But Sansa couldn’t help the roll of her hips the longer Petyr teased her. It felt  _ too good _ .

           She heard somewhere a  _ tsk _ , and then Petyr’s finger was inside her. Sansa gasped.  _ Fuck _ . She’d played with herself before, but having someone else do it made the briefest touch so much more electric. Sansa imagined she could come here and now, with barely a single dip of his finger. 

           He didn’t let her come, though. Pulling out for a second to drag around her opening again. And again. Too many times she had lost count, a grumble clawing up her throat to  _ Hurry up _ and  _ Please, Petyr, please _ . Neither escaped her lips; Petyr slid back inside her, thrusting in and out without rhythm. Sansa let out a shuddering breath.

           “Play with your breasts, sweetling.”

           She was too lost in the feel of him, of this, to remember Sansa was meant to be in control tonight. Sansa didn’t care, couldn’t remember to care. She dipped her hands beneath her shirt and grabbed both breasts. Toyed with the nipples with her thumbs. Imagining they were Petyr’s hands touching her. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend he was.

           “That’s it, sweetling.” Sansa’s hips were moving in tandem to his fingers, pushing when he was, taking him in further. And even then, it wasn’t enough. Sansa craved the feel of him, skin on skin. Craved so much more than this farce of  _ not touching _ .

           There was only a week left until then. A slithering thought wondered if she would make it.

           Her hips moved faster and faster as she felt her orgasm building. The world grew silent, empty save for her body and Petyr’s, and where they were joined.

           When she came, Sansa’s head fell on top of Petyr’s shoulder. He smelled good.

           Even then, Petyr’s fingers continued to lazily stroke up and down, in and out. Letting her ride out the final waves of her pleasure. All before a crashing realization that they  _ were _ touching, and Sansa’s head shot up. 

           She leaned back, freeing herself from his tortuous touch. Sansa adjusted her shirt, fixed her hair, as she waited for her heart to settle. Petyr looked just as flushed as she did.

           “I…” She inhaled a long, deep breath. It did nothing against the constant hammering of blood through her veins. So heavy she felt it pounding throughout every part of her. “I’ll do you, now.” 

           “No.” Sansa’s hand wavered an inch above his cock. She looked up at him, suddenly afraid she was doing something wrong. Or, suddenly afraid that Petyr realized this  _ was _ wrong, that they crossed too many lines. Only, Petyr flicked his gaze from her hand, to her core, to her face. “Where’s the fun in using your hands?”

           She furrowed her brows. “But–"

           “Trust me,” he began, motioning for her to move. Not away, but  _ down _ . “I promise it’ll feel a lot better.”

           Sansa did as she was instructed, lying down on the couch, tucking her hands in the crevice between the arm and the cushion. A glance at the TV told her the characters were long past their steamy night; the girl was standing slack-jawed in the back of a lecture hall. Sansa had no idea what was going on in the movie anymore. She didn’t rightly care what happened to them. They weren’t real.  _ This _ – wrong, yes, and the furthest thing from innocent – was real.

           Petyr draped the blanket over her lower half, not without first admiring her cunt that was still wet from her orgasm. From the way Petyr licked his lips, Sansa knew he was  _ dying _ to taste her. Dying to break their rule for one lick between her lower lips.

           Unlike that reluctance, Petyr shucked off his own pants and underwear in one swoop. His cock was hard, jutting up against his stomach. Reaching behind his head to do the same with his shirt.

           Sansa startled “What are you–?”

           “I told you to trust me,” he said with a wink, taking off his shirt with a single pull.

           Sansa looked away. She had never seen a man naked before, and certainly not with the intent of fucking her. This was too many lines crossed. She just wanted to stroke him with her hand through the blanket and call her move done. Wait to see when he would counter her piece, and what that would entail. Something absolutely wicked, for sure.

           Unless...this was it?

           “I promise I’ll go easy with you, sweetling.” The couch dipped down as he kneeled beneath her, positioning one hand on the back and the other by her head. Sansa couldn’t keeping staring at the TV; slowly, she pulled her gaze from it, to the man that was going to rut against her.

           He was lean, as evidenced by how his clothes sat against him, tailored and slim. The smattering of hair on his chest was just as littered with grey as the curls on his head. Sansa thought she saw a line out of place, trailing the length of his chest. But Petyr positioned himself between her legs, bent over. Too desperate to have what Sansa was (foolishly) giving away so easily.

           “I’m going to fuck you now.”

           Petyr waited for her to nod, or say anything. He might have been wicked, the devil incarnate made flesh, but he  _ always _ waited for her, Sansa realized. If she wanted to, she could say  _ No _ and be done with their game for the night.

           Except, gods knew she didn’t want to. “I’m ready.”

           Something twinkled Petyr’s shadowed eyes. It was gone the moment Sansa felt the press of his cock through the blanket. 

           Her head lolled back against the couch arm. She was glad her hands were sandwiched – they had the sudden urge to grab hold of Petyr. His arms, whose muscles and veins were strained with a similar effort to keep away. Hers had the sudden urge to wrapped around him as he moved up and down the length of her cunt. They had the sudden urge to tangle in his hair as the head of his cock nudged her clit.

           “Oh, fuck.” The swear was hardly a word. Sansa pushed and pulled herself against him, rolling her hips, letting her body move and take control. It knew what it wanted; it knew that this, that Petyr, felt fucking amazing. 

           He leaned over her, his curls dancing in tune to his thrusts. His body was so close to hers, she felt him brush against her, against her breasts. There was a wicked gleam, and then-

           “Petyr!”

           She still had her shirt on, but her left breast tickled from the trace of his tongue around a nipple. Petyr nippled at it with his lips first, then bit it softly. He pulled back just as quick with a smile, sweat lining his brow. Winked. “Pretend like it didn’t happen.”

           To emphasize that, Petyr thrusted his hips up against her, and Sansa forgot everything else but the way his cock rubbed against her cunt. He moved fasted, the couch creaking with each thrust. Every time his rubbed over her clit, Sansa moaned. And Petyr growled every time Sansa moaned, drunk on the sound of her as much as what he was doing to her. He didn’t relent, not even when Sansa’s hips moved frantically, her mind going hazy with the cresting release just there, almost there.

           “Come, sweetling.”

           She bit her lips closed as she came, stifling the word but not the moan. Just behind hers, she felt and heard Petyr come, bits of his seed finding their way atop her stomach again. 

           Gods. It was even better than the first time.

           Sansa listened to the buzz of her orgasm fade away into the silence of the world. Only, it wasn’t silent. She recognized the patter of rain on the roof, quiet, unsure drops before the relentless downpour. She recognized the voices of the actors, though Sansa couldn’t bother to care what was happening in the movie anymore. She recognized the heavy panting of Petyr, who managed to keep himself from falling on top of Sansa.

           She opened her eyes. He was staring down at her, mouth open, eyes lidded. Sansa had the sudden urge to smile at him – because, gods, that was fantastic, and euphoria filled her veins as much as blood did. She didn’t, though. Just as Sansa managed to stifle the cry as she came.

_ Petyr! _

           There was half a frantic heartbeat before her orgasm ripped through her that Sansa knew what she had been about to shout. And it took all her effort to keep her mouth closed, to keep the truth trapped in her lungs.

           She loved the feeling of the orgasm, the way it made her forget everything but the way her body craved more. The way everything seemed softer, duller. Like if she closed her eyes a second too long, Sansa would open them hours later.

           But that’s all Sansa loved.

           She hadn’t recognized whether Petyr shouted her name or not. Or if he had that half a heartbeat of clarity to understand what a single word could mean. 

           Slowly, finally, Sansa’s breathing slowed. She could still feel her heart pounding throughout her body, but it was dull. 

           Petyr wrapped the blanket around her arms, nudging them free from the crevice. They felt numb, pinpricks dancing along each finger. Petyr repositioned the blanket around her wrists, wrapping his own hands around them, before pushing them against the couch arm. Trapped. Sansa could smell his breath beneath the headiness of their need – he tasted of lemons and mint. 

           Like last night, he was so close. Too close.

           “You need to be careful, sweetling,” Petyr began, leaning reluctantly away, only an inch. Then another. But not completely removing himself from her, or his hands off his wrists. Either because he forgot they were there, or Petyr couldn’t dare break that heated contact. Sansa swore she felt his thumbs run over the veins at her wrists. Swore his blood pumped to the same, frantic beat as hers. Told herself it was a trick of the blanket.

           Petyr continued, licking his lips. “If you offer yourself like this to the wrong man, he might just take and take and  _ take _ .”

           So slowly, he leaned back onto his legs, releasing his grip on her wrists. Sansa could see how his cock was still semi-hard, as if Petyr wasn’t at all satisfied with that farce of a fuck. He wanted more, wanted all of it – and Sansa, though she tried to deny it, wanted it to.

           The question caught in her throat:  _ Are you the wrong man _ ? Sansa didn’t have to ask it, of course. Petyr wasn’t the man she was to marry in a week. Petyr wasn’t the man who kept her family together and happy. Petyr wasn’t the man she loved.

_ This _ wasn’t  _ love _ . This was a sick sort of desperation. That’s all it was. All it could ever be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [First things first: here’s the recipe for the pasta Sansa made, which is A+ (https://www.blueapron.com/recipes/creamy-lemon-pasta-with-english-peas-mint-garlic-breadcrumbs)
> 
> Second things: I hope that sin was worth the wait (and the length lmao)!! Pretty sure we’re still trash and proud ;) ]


	11. petyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ First things first….I know this is really late, and I’m so sorry!!! :( I wish I had an excuse but I really don’t. But at least it's long again, so, you're welcome?
> 
> Also: I know I’ve gotten a little bit carried away with the ‘flashback’ scenes, and I do hope they haven’t been too much?? I’m trying my best to not let them get /too/ out of hand, but please let me know if you think they are too much or whatnot! :)
> 
> Now without further ado: enjoy the sin~! ]

 

           It was a dream. It  _ had _ to be. 

           The wafting smell of something delicious as he ascended the elevator to his apartments. Then Sansa, standing there (in what he will admit was  _ more  _ clothing than he would have liked), offering a freshly cooked dinner with a sweet smile. Petyr had wanted to  _ kiss  _ her, and ask if he could have his dessert first. Knowing that there  _ would  _ be a dessert to come that evening, whether Sansa initiated it or not. Petyr was so fucking glad she did.

           Petyr was even more fucking thankful when he woke up to  _ memories  _ of last night. 

           The dinner was superb. Petyr hadn’t been lying when he said Sansa would make a wonderful wife. Didn’t think on it further, no matter how lovely the dream was: ascending to this every night, dinner and Sansa and the promise of losing themselves in each other.

           Something cold clutched his heart.

           “Do you have plans tonight?” Sansa began, shoving stray bits of her dinner around the plate with her fork. It left light  _ eeeeeeek _ noises in the space between them. Petyr opened his mouth (propriety be damned, he  _ needed _ more of Sansa right now.  _ Have you anything planned for dessert _ , he wanted to ask, and a tad less subtle  _ Can I have you tonight? _ )– “I heard it might rain,” she interrupted. He saw a light blush color her cheeks, evidence of the fact that even  _ she _ wanted something wicked for dessert. Petyr wondered where she might take this night, and half-prayed to the gods it would end in a bed. “And I… I thought we could…” A pause. “...I thought we could, I don’t know, watch a movie? Unless you’ve work to do!”

           Sansa added the last line so quickly, as if hoping it might undo the implication of her offer. It wouldn’t, of course. After last night, Petyr couldn’t imagine  _ not _ indulging himself on Sansa every night until her birthday. And then when she finally was eighteen, well, neither of them would getting a wink of sleep.

           Petyr had his face propped on one bent hand, watching her. It was cute, the way she suddenly grew embarrassed. It was cute, too, the distance she willingly put between them as they ate. For her own safety? Or for Petyr’s sanity? He wasn’t sure, but gods if those short distance felt like an abyss between them. He left his other hand lying on his thigh beneath the counter, feeling the sting of his fingernails digging into the meat of his palm. It was an effort keeping that devious hand from stretching over that abyss and touching her. Swiping away a curl that feel forward of an ear. Caressing her cheek, her jaw, her lips. Pulling her forward into a kiss.

           Not now. Not yet. 

           “Of course I’m busy, Sansa,” Petyr began. Interrupting her interruption. How quickly she was trying to free herself of this hole she had willingly dug. Unless Sansa meant for tonight to be  _ just _ a dinner and conversation. In which case, she shouldn’t have dressed down to such measly clothes. As much as it was an effort not to reach over and pull her face into his, it was an effort not to slip beneath those simple shorts and see whether she’d been thinking about his lesson from last night. “I think I could find time enough for  _ one _ movie.”

_ And I hope we don’t watch any of it _ .

           Sansa smiled, and Petyr felt something – something baser than that primal need to lift her atop the counter and take her, with mouth and cock – twitch inside him. He wondered about it as he saw Sansa starting to collect her dishes. He ordered her to stay,  _ insisting _ that he would take the duty of cleaning up after her. Slowly, she lowered herself back down. Petyr wondered, too, about whether Sansa was willing to obey other orders just as willingly. 

           Halfway through washing the pan, Sansa excused herself to find a movie. Only the wall saw his smile. What thoughts were drowning his niece that she  _ had _ to run away before something wicked urged her on? Were they was delightful as the ones Petyr swam through? Well, as delightful as an innocent girl could dream. Certainly there were boundaries even Sansa wasn’t aware existed; not to mention all the different positions Petyr could (would) take her. 

           There was so much Petyr wanted to teach her. And he had the feeling Sansa would be the dutiful, wide-eyed student and swallow every lesson with a smile.

           He went to his room to change, choosing comfortable clothes that would imply he had  _ absolutely no intention _ of anything happening tonight. Plain shirt and jeans. Gods, how would Sansa react if he just showed up stark naked with a hard cock? Petyr laughed.

           As he neared on quiet feet, Petyr stood at the edge of the living room, watching Sansa. She wasn’t doing anything really. And yet, Petyr had the sudden thought that  _ this _ alone was crossing some sort of boundary that he had no qualm of crossing last night. Observing his niece just sitting there, lost in her thoughts as the movies flickered aimlessly on the screen. It was...unusual, to say the least. That Petyr simultaneously wanted to keep Sansa as she was – pure (mostly) and untouched and innocent – and at the same time, drag her deep, deep down into the furthest level of hell where he resided. If only he could have both. If only he didn’t have this insatiable  _ need _ to have her, every way, mentally and physically. 

           Too bad he was weak. 

           Petyr walked towards her on soft feet, settling on the furthest edge of the couch. Another illusion of  _ there’s nothing happening tonight _ . Sansa startled as he sat. The flickering carousel of movies stopped. It was some romance movie. Lysa had been raving to watch it, dragged Petyr to it in hopes of rekindling their lust. Speaking of nights to forget...

           “Are you alright with this?” Sansa asked, regret visible on her face. Had Sansa seen the movie, too, or was she basing her Petyr-isn’t-going-to-want-to-watch-a-dumb-chick-flick regret solely on the name and the cleverly-raunchy cover? It honestly didn’t matter what the movie was. It could have been a documentary on watching paint dry, because Petyr had no intention of watching it. Not when Sansa sat there, legs curled up beneath her, shorts riding up just enough on her thighs that he could make out the bottom swell of her ass. Unfortunately, her arms were crossed over her chest. That didn’t stop him from picturing hardened nipples, or how she might squirm when he played with them.

           Petyr only shrugged. The facade of a bored parent willing to suffer through their child’s interests. “If it’s what you want to watch.” Smiled, hoping to ease away Sansa’s regret.

           The beginning (like any movie, really) was slow to start, and Petyr couldn’t help but thinking about the way Lysa had clutched onto his arm the entire movie. How she was reliving her years through the main character (of whom, if Petyr squinted, looked an awful lot like Sansa. Not as pretty. But neither were the girls in the porn he’d watch to sate himself this week). Petyr hadn’t been able to  _ listen _ to the movie from his wife’s droning comments filtering in through one ear. Blithering comments about her own university years. The clubs where she and Cat and their friends danced. The boys she  _ swore _ gushed around her, clawing for a turn. 

           And now, Petyr wasn’t able to pay attention as the girls were heading out to their own nightclub, because the girl sitting beside him (though too far away) was stealing glances. Sansa wasn’t even  _ trying _ to be inconspicuous. Which only made his cock harder. He’d assumed jeans would be a safe bet if Sansa truly had no intentions for any  _ fun _ tonight, and only wanted to watch a movie. But they were comfortable to sit in, and equally comfortable to take off to take her here and now if she only asked.

           “I’m cold.”

           Petyr watched as Sansa slid her legs off the couch (they were so long, so beautiful, Petyr reigned in the urge to reach out and stroke them, from ankle up to knee, up and up until he lost himself in the junction of her thighs). She dug through the cabinets for a blanket, soft wool he reserved for the few actually cold days in King’s Landing. Robert had loved that blanket, and it hadn’t been used since. Now, though, Petyr reigned in the groan of frustration at the sight of it. At the realization that those beautiful legs, the peak of her ass, the impure thoughts– all of it would be lost to his own stolen glances. 

           Unless he slithered beneath it and had his way, consequences be damned.

           Maybe it was that thought that had Petyr thinking about last night. The way she pulled down her shorts and underwear in one fell swoop. The glisten of moonlight on her fingers as she dipped in and out of her cunt. The little moans she made. The way her back arched up as she came. The glint of his own come splattered over her stomach.

           He adjusted his seat.

           It  _ definitely _ were those thoughts that pulled the question from his throat: “Did you enjoy my gift, sweetling?”

           Because he  _ had _ to know. 

           Petyr went out of his way, of course, to get it for her and smuggle it onto the plane without alerting the firm that he was indeed carrying a dildo back to King’s Landing (to shove up the Lannister’s ass in lieu of that stick shoved up there? Maybe). Like a good uncle, he brought his sweet niece a gift back from his travels.

           And like a good uncle, Petyr was dying to know if her little cunt had the pleasure of trying it out.

           Sansa squirmed on her side of the couch, and Petyr saw the way her knees pressed tightly beneath the blanket. It wasn’t a damning  _ yes _ or  _ no _ . But it was all hells fun watching her struggle. Had she even  _ seen _ a dildo before? Probably not, if his own cock was the first she’d seen. 

           The first she would touch. Taste. Allow deep into the sweet folds of her cunt.

           Through a breath, she answered, “I… It was very  _ thoughtful _ .”

_ That’s not what I asked _ . Petyr fought – and lost – against restraining a smile. She shrank just that much further into her embarrassment. “But did you  _ enjoy _ it?”

_ I’m not going to stop until you tell me if you’ve fucked yourself yet _ .

           Sansa seemed to figure that out, too. “I...no. I…” From the corner of his eye, Petyr was  _ loving _ the way her cheeks were  _ now  _ properly flushed. The way she toyed with the edge of the blanket, trying and failing to fight against her own emotions. A pity Sansa was so easy to read. Imagine the sort of ruin she could sow if she knew how to lie! If she worked her face calmly and said,  _ I have, uncle, and I can’t imagine your cock to be any better than it _ .

           Petyr would be out of his pants and on top of –  _ inside her _ – in seconds.

           She persisted through her embarrassment. Admitting that no, it lay unused. Better than that was the permission that Petyr could teach her how to use it. Tonight? Maybe, depending on what happened. Tomorrow? For sure. Even if that fucker Tywin had him fly all the way to Essos, Petyr would find a way to make it back here and revel in debasing his niece.

           The rest was left to their imaginations, and  _ gods _ what a gloriously wicked imagination Petyr had.

           Sansa asked if Petyr had any  _ sordid details _ from his date, to counter him. As if Petyr wasn’t going to relish in telling Sansa every single detail, and see which parts of it made her breath hitch in anticipation. 

           Only, she clapped her hands over her ears, and it was too adorable.

           Then: “I can tell you mine.”

           Petyr turned fully to look at her. He’d been careful not to look  _ too eager _ sitting on the one side of the couch. But now, those few words had his senses on edge. Petyr let one hand drape across the back of the couch, closer to his Sansa but still so far. He crossed one leg over the other, wondered if it made his erection more or less noticeable. Regardless, Sansa would have to be a blind fool not to understand that just being near her was enough to make him hard. Sansa would have to be a bigger fool not to understand how easy she could use her age against him. Anything – anything in the world! – and Petyr would give it to Sansa, just for her consent at a single touch, or kiss, or press of fingers against her breasts. Lower. Granted, Petyr was going to be  _ gentle _ with Sansa was she was legal...only for a while.

           Petyr shoved the thoughts out, focusing instead on what Sansa was implying. Focusing, too, on the quiet fury that was bubbling low in his chest at it. “Your…?”

           “My  _ own _ sordid details.”

           Either his fingers were going to break, or the couch was, from how hard he was pressing them into the arm. He saw him: doucheface. Leaning in to press a kiss to Sansa’s lips. Scooting his chair over next to her so he would have easy access. The slow climb of his grubby little fingers underneath Sansa’s dress, desperate for a single touch.

           Petyr didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not with the sorts of he things he wanted to scream (not  _ at _ Sansa, of course). Instead, he mashed his teeth against each other until his jaw hurt from the pressure, forcing himself to look at the movie and pretend to find it suddenly fascinating. Pretend not be affected by the possibility that  _ there were _ sordid details Sansa wasn’t telling him. Secret lovers from school? Secret rendezvous here while Petyr was slaving away at work? Who knew how many boys Sansa had, looking to add Petyr to that endless list. She could be lying. She could be the best damn actress this side of the Narrow Sea. She could be playing Petyr for what he was – a desperate, depraved man – silently collecting tabs of data to use against him when the time was right.

           Only, Petyr wasn’t willing to believe any of that. Sansa  _ was _ pure, innocent, as perfect a specimen for even the most devout followers of the Seven to worship beneath. There was no way this girl sitting next to him  _ had _ anything against him.

           And if she did, Sansa’s list was far, far smaller than his own.

           Bit by bit, the world came back into focus. The ache in his fingers as he pulled them away from breaking. The ache in his jaw, loosening the muscles before his teeth shattered. The beautiful girl sitting beside him, covered in a blanket and a light flush.

           The scene he came back to in the movie, though, was one he wished he hadn’t. The camera work was clever not to show the vomit  _ too horrendously _ , but Petyr swore he could smell it. “Eugh.”

           And then, like all romantic movies, the man lives just so happened to live across the street. And he just so happens to be even more chivalrous in letting her stay until her friends come back, even offering her a shower. Sansa was having none of it when Petyr voiced his disbelief, though. It was endearing, how tightly she held onto the idea that  _ true love _ existed. And the idea that coincidences like this were as common as, well, the coincidence that the niece you were never acquainted with suddenly showing up in one’s life and filling your thoughts with her night and day.

           Petyr swallowed away  _ that _ bit of disbelief.

           More minutes passed. Quietly, Sansa reached over to the coffee table – smart to keep the blanket pressed against her chest, because like hells Petyr  _ wasn’t _ going to try and sneak a glance – and grabbed a small white bag. Carefully examined its contents before popping a sugary sweet into her mouth. Offering the bag to Petyr. There wasn’t much choice: lemon, or lemon, or lemon? He smiled at the selection, choosing a hard candy. 

           Was this what she tasted like? Sweetness and citrus and sin. 

           “Are you cold?” Sansa eventually asked, trying to fill the silence. Petyr looked over at her, rolling the sweet in his mouth. Sansa tried her best not to watch it – was there a throb in her clit, jealous of Petyr’s tongue ravishing the candy and not her? He hoped so. 

           When he acted as though she was nearing that imagined boundary, Sansa went playfully defensive. Claiming it was only for the most innocent of reasons that she would offer to share a blanket. Was that why she was pressing herself against him, as if hoping the blanket might disappear (their clothes, too, until there was nothing separating them, not even air). Was that why she looked up at him with pouty lips and excuses, even as Petyr warned her. Because she was  _ just cold _ . As if.

           This was it, then. Sansa’s move. 

           It wouldn’t be any fun to let her have her way (no matter how easy that would have been, or how at her offer Petyr’s cock pushed against the front of his jeans, more than ready for release.

           Then there was sex. Petyr rather enjoyed the way it was filmed: as a romance movie, it didn’t focus on the sorts of trite things he would see in porn. There was  _ feeling _ , a connection (if only for a night, or so the girl believed) between two souls. There was, of course, a good amount of sex, and a well timed piano crescendo as the man brought her to orgasm.

           That’s what Petyr remembered of the movie. Because for the life of him, he couldn’t stop staring at Sansa, who’s own gaze was transfixed to the movie. He saw – and felt – her reactions. He didn’t have to ask the question to know: “I take it you like what you’re seeing, sweetling?”

           She did. Lost for words, torn between the movie and the fact that she only needed to  _ ask _ and Petyr would do the same. Would do so much more.

           “As long as we don’t touch, right?”

           Petyr couldn’t control the smile that spread across his face. A devil’s might have looked kinder.

           Her  _ plan _ was simple: fuck each other with the blanket between them, as if that would ease the guilt of what she was doing. As long as they don’t touch, then it didn’t really happen. As long as they don’t give in to their mutually base urges...

           He agreed, though not sure if he would be able to control himself.

           Slowly, Sansa lowered herself onto his fingers, sighing at the connection. 

           “Fuck.” Even through the blanket, he could feel Sansa’s need, soaking the material. It was difficult to maneuver his fingers and the blanket inside her, but Petyr was determined and Sansa was needy. How awful would he be not to address his wanting niece? 

           It was an effort not to touch her. Petyr ordered her to play with her breasts because he couldn’t, admiring this last shred of propriety of not showing him her breasts. Petyr  _ tsk _ ed at it, but didn’t stop his ministrations. Her need had the blanket plastered around his fingers, and with every thrust (short as it was inhibited), Sansa’s breathy sighs grew louder, shorter. It didn’t take much to make her come, and Petyr wondered if she would come the minute he fully sheathed his cock inside her.

           When she came, Sansa collapsed atop him, head on his shoulder. Petyr inhaled: the sweet scent of her shampoo, the heady scent of her come. It was even better than the candy.

           “I’ll do you now.” The words sounded so wicked coming from her pretty lips. But Petyr needed much more than her stroking through the blanket. It was an admirable loophole to his rule, but gods if Petyr wanted to tear it away. 

           “No.” Sansa looked at him confused, worry crossing her flushed face that maybe she had done something wrong. As if she could. A lazy thought realized that Sansa could take someone’s life, and Petyr would be there to help muddle the evidence. After all, that’s what he was good at. Lies and deceptions and bribes.

           “Trust me. I promise it’ll feel a lot better.”

           Petyr watched her get into position: prone on the couch, hands above her head, one leg smashed against the back of the couch and the other dangling lazily off the edge. Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . It was so much better than all of his fantasies. Sansa, naked (well, almost), giving herself up to him completely. Looking up at him not with fear or disgust, but  _ excitement _ , and lust, and (maybe?) foolish, schoolgirl love. 

           When he moved to remove his clothes, Sansa shied away. It was comical, her sudden embarrassment, even though she was nearly as naked! Even though her legs were spread wide enough that her inner lips were parted. Her cunt glistened with her come.

           Lowering himself back onto the couch, reluctantly shielding her with the blanket, Petyr said, “I promise I’ll go easy with you, sweetling.”  _ At least, until you’re bored of that and want something rougher _ . He couldn’t help but add, “I’m going to fuck you now.” Gods, how he’d wanted to say that for a week now. And this was as good as fuck to satiate him until he could. Fuck his niece with absolute abandon.

           The minute his cock touched her cunt (by proxy of blanket), Sansa lost it. She wasn’t going to last long, Petyr knew, and neither was he. But damn if he wasn’t going to enjoy himself.

           He gaze roamed over her. From the part of her lips, breathy moans escaping it. Up to where her hands were straining to keep away from touching him. Down to her breasts, moving in tandem with his thrusts. Still beneath the shirt; Petyr frowned at that.

           Well, if the blanket meant they weren’t technically touching, then…

           “Petyr!”

           ...the shirt meant he wasn’t  _ technically _ biting her nipple? He winked at her. Pulled back and thrust quickly against her cunt, all thoughts of the nip gone from Sansa’s mind. Petyr was drunk on the sight of her, the little sounds she made. The way her hips – so unused to sex – found their rhythm against him. Petyr didn’t slow, not even as Sansa’s body started to move with the frantic motions on the cusp of her orgasm. Good. Because Petyr’s hands were tired of gripping onto the couch, reigning in his own release, not wanting to be  _ that guy _ that fucked a girl without making sure she came first.

           “Come, sweetling.”

           Because if she didn’t right now, Petyr would be that douche.

           She did, and gods it was just as lovely as last night. As ten minutes ago. 

           A haze filled Petyr’s mind, his body, and he fought off the urge to collapse atop her. This was too much, gods. He wasn’t sure how he was going to survive when he would fuck her properly.

           Carefully, Petyr repositioned the blanket to wrap around her arms. Pinning her against the couch as he leaned in. Sansa’s breath hitched. Her heart quickened, breasts rising and falling just shy of his own chest. What an effort not to crush his body against hers.

           “You need to be careful, sweetling,” he began, slowly leaning back away from Sansa no matter how much his body was screaming to stay, to go on. She was  _ right here _ , after all, a cunt dripping wet with the flimsy excuse of a barrier lying atop her. Would she even object to Petyr having his complete way with her? Would she even object to her first time being on his couch, half-naked, and with her uncle diving between her underage folds? He shook the thought away. Better to stop now before his mind got too carried away. Before his body took over again, and his mind regretting the waves of pleasure echoing hers. “If you offer yourself like that to the wrong man, he might just take and take and  _ take _ .”

           Petyr saw the unspoken question forming in the slight crease of her brow, in the way her tongue slowly licked lips Sansa left parted. 

_ Are you the wrong man _ .

           Of course he was. 

           With half of him screaming to stay, Petyr stood, fetching his discarded jeans and shoving his legs through them. The zip, the button, and just like that reason flooded come back. The movie was still playing: the girl standing open-mouthed as – surprise – the man she just fucked was her professor. His smile said he  _ knew _ all along. Knew of the wicked things he did, enhanced by that forbidden boundary between student and teacher.

           “You should go clean up, Sansa. Leave the blanket, I’ll take care of it.” Petyr (for all of his high and mighty talk of being  _ better _ than the lowest possible madman) didn’t let his eyes wander away from his niece as she, too, shucked her shorts on and made her way to the bathroom. He smiled at the shudder in her legs, at the trail of wetness down a thigh. At the way Sansa turned to look back at him, uncertain if, yes,  _ that really did happen _ . Wondering if she might wake up to a dream of fucking her uncle.

           Thank god it wasn’t.

           Petyr knew the proverbial ball had been in her court after he had barged into her room and  _ demanded _ to see her cunt. Half of Petyr wondered if she would up his ante and ask to use the dildo last night (he wouldn't deny that idea alone kept him from strangling anyone at work). But  _ holy hells _ . By all the gods, new and old and ones he'd never swore curses at… That was not at all what Petyr would have expected from his Sansa (there he went again, using  _ his _ ). 

           It made him proud. 

           It made him hard. 

           Petyr reigned in his groan as he came in the shower Sunday morning, wishing his hand could wrap around Sansa’s soft thighs instead of being pressed against the frozen hardness of the tiles. The cold shower did nothing to stave off his erection. Nor had the flurry of memories he had awoken to, suffocating him in wonderous lust. And by the gods Petyr was finding how easy it was to willingly drown in them.

           In her.

* * *

           “Is there a reason you haven’t shaved since I last saw you?”

           Petyr turned to look at Varys. The man sat down beside him, a cup of steaming tea seeming to appear out of nowhere. The bald man had been assigned to the wondrous  _ fun _ of auditing – a task that had him shacked up in the small conference room all week, going over trite details of everyone in the office – and Petyr could see the relief in Varys’ soft features that he was glad to be free of it. The man brought his cup to his lips, gently blowing the heat away. Petyr wouldn't be surprised if he had a working coffee press tucked in his sleeves somewhere; there wasn’t a moment he  _ wasn’t  _ drinking tea. Varys took a tentative sip as Petyr replied, “I don't think you've shaved, either.”

           “Funny.”

           Petyr scratched his chin, feeling the short hairs poking through skin. Wondering if Sansa would sigh at the feel of them as he kissed his way down from her lips to her lower lips. A trail of fine red lines up and down her skin, outlining his path across her. Marking her. He dropped his hand. 

           “Do you think he'll be ready?” Varys asked in a tone free of interest or enthusiasm. Granted, that was just how the man always sounded. Made him a great liar.

           They stared at the glass wall and the blinds that hid them from the boy inside. Another pair of legs wafted past the bottom half of the wall, shoes shined to a pristine onyx.

           “If he knows how to keep his damned mouth shut…” Petyr began, not willing to finish the sentence for fear that Tywin (somehow) was monitoring them. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he was. Though if so, then Petyr was doubly surprised that Tywin hadn’t fired his ass for what Sansa had done in that same conference room. Were there lingering traces of her come on the floor? Would the walls echo the awful things she taunted him with? Petyr hoped not.

           The boy, however, wanted to _brag_. As if what he had done was a trophy of sorts. He couldn’t even remember half of it, and still he strutted around behind closed doors singing praises of his crime. It was a wonder he hadn’t slipped up in the past several years. Petyr didn’t want to imagine how much money – and whores, and luxury cars, and so much mundane crap – he would need to shell out to keep the truth hidden. Again.

           Varys sipped his tea. Petyr could smell spices wafting through the air: cinnamon and nutmeg and something else. He couldn't help but wonder if Varys’ blood was just spiced tea at this point. “And your niece? I hope Sansa hasn’t been giving you much trouble, either.”

           Just the sound of her name brought back wicked thoughts, fantasies,  _ memories.  _ In the darkness of a blink, Petyr saw her flushed face as she came, hands straining back from touching him, holding onto him as he rutted against her. Sometimes, in blinks that were even darker, Petyr was fucking her without the blanket, and Sansa was screaming his name.

           Petyr adjusted his seat, hoping his erection wasn't so obvious to the bald man. Whether Varys knew or not, he looked only to care about his tea and this facade of coworkership.  _ He’s just making smalltalk _ , Petyr told himself, willing the flutter of his heart away, willing (and failing) to control his cock.  _ He doesn’t know a damned thing _ . “She’s fine.”

           A disinterested  _ hmmm _ from Varys filled the silence, then more careful sips. “That’s good. Then you’ve figured out what to do with a, I quote, fucking seventeen-year-old girl?”

           The way Varys said it screamed that he knew. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was just trying to play on Petyr’s nerves, that’s all. Besides, what would Varys know about love or sex anyways? “I guess. She’ll be off to university in a week, anyways. Won’t need to worry about her then.” Only, that thought made him sad? Disappointed? Something.

           Another sip. “I’m sure you’re  _ dying _ to get her out of your apartment. Though I hope not to the same degree as your late wife, gods bless her soul…”

           Varys took a too-careful sip, watching Petyr over the rim of the cup.

           Like any deranged maniac hellbent on fucking his niece, Petyr couldn’t help the way his muscles froze at the thought that Varys  _ knew _ . He was a clever man, had to be if he managed to get into a position at Lannister & Baratheon without fucking his way to the top. One day, Petyr wanted to know what he did, or who he bribed, to get here. 

           Maybe it was just the  _ illusion _ of knowing something. People often told more than they should when they thought they were found out. Petyr knew that. Petyr knew he shouldn’t let Varys rile him up. 

           But he was.

           He also realized the bald man had been talking (and sipping) for some time now, waiting for an answer. Petyr heard none of it. “And we’re talking about….?”

           “The case? That you have been on for, well,  _ years  _ now I suppose.” Varys gave an incredulous look as though Petyr had suddenly gone mad – and hadn’t he? Exactly one week ago whilst his hands had been all over Myranda, and Sansa walked through those elevator doors, an angel and a devil. The look was shrugged off, another sip of tea taken. “Had I known you weren’t listening I wouldn’t have bothered with the smalltalk.”

           “Right. Well, it’s as you would expect. Too much evidence to deal with, with too little praise from...” They knew who. Sometimes, people didn’t appreciate how much effort it took to get witnesses to lie properly, or false experts to pretend to know the right specifics.  _ Especially _ if they were repeat testifiers. Once they realized Petyr would bend backwards to get them to say what was necessary, they tried to test him. As if they owned Petyr. As if.

           “You’ve done it already. It’s much easier the second time, is it not?“

           A shrug. “Yes, and no. So long as we can dismiss the evidence properly, then there isn’t much of a case against us. I have a feeling this upjumped lawyer isn’t going to let the truth slide so easily.”

           “Are we talking about you, now?”

           Petyr fought against the urge to knock the tea cup into Varys’ face. He continued. “Not to mention he has a hard time corroborating his own story… If only–"

           They stopped, stood straight. Tywin walked out of the conference room, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the door swung close behind him with a silent  _ swish _ . The Lion didn’t look pleased; though, he never did.

           “Baelish,” he said – commanded – with a voice as dry as the skin of his hands. 

           Petyr nodded a curt farewell to Varys. “Sir, I–"

           “He’s fine.” Tywin interrupted, clasping his hands behind his back. He chewed on his inner lip, stopped a second later. Stared out of a window, and forced the impression that everything  _ was _ fine. Even in front of Petyr – who knew far too many Lannister secrets, many of which he would like to forget – Tywin was incapable of relaxing, of lowering his steely front. The stick was really shoved up there today. “I’m more concerned about the new evidence. You said yesterday it would be of no concern to us.”

           Petyr stared out the window, too. “It won’t be. Discrepancies in years’ old reports should be easy to dismiss–"

           “Has it been dealt with?”

           Petyr clenched his hands inside of his pockets. To keep from strangling the old man, he told himself. It was only ever about  _ results _ – something that Petyr didn’t mind much, except for when there weren’t positive results, or the results weren’t instantaneous enough for the Lannister. In which case, Tywin was exceptional at making anyone feel inferior. 

           Granted, it had only been a few days since the other firm brought up the evidence. A short list of information not matching with reports or testimonies. Things that hadn’t been brought up during the original trial, and barely enough to open a new case. Petyr wondered if maybe there was something else they weren’t sharing. Regardless, it wasn’t a problem. Lies were easy to fabricate, and someone was always looking for an easy way up the ladder. A misplaced document here, a forged timestamp there. Easy. Except for the fact that the trial date had been pushed up several weeks (a reason Petyr had yet to ascertain). Weeks of work to be done in  _ days _ . Not impossible, just a pain in the ass. 

           Tywin was convinced nothing was astray, and that they would be able to convince the judge and jury of the boy’s innocence – again. So long as the new evidence could be overturned, overlooked, and misrepresented. It was a careful process that Petyr thrived in. People were so easy: a lustful night with whores, or a heavy purse of money, or protection from future judgement. Everyone had a limit, and everyone had something they would break the limit for. Petyr had yet to find what this small-time lawyer wanted, but it existed. “It’s in process.” 

           Tywin  _ harrumphed _ at that, though Petyr imagined he would have  _ harrumphed _ , too, if he said the evidence was already dismissed and doctored to sway in their favor. Tywin probably  _ harrumphed _ when he was fucking, too. 

           “You said you have a niece….” the old Lannister began, words trailing off as his gaze shifted through the glass walls into the largest conference room. Sunlight poured in through the slits in the blinds, catching Joffrey’s golden hair. In a different world, Petyr couldn’t help but think – worry – that Sansa might have swooned after him. Assuming he didn’t open his mouth, Joffrey was a picture perfect teenage girl fantasy. Like she might have for that boy she went on a date with. In another world, Sansa might have loved the boy. Married him, had his children, and withered beneath his corrosive habits.

           But in  _ this _ world, Sansa was slowly coming undone by her uncle. 

           Petyr was glad for this world.

           But Petyr wasn’t fond of the way Tywin brought up the fact of her. He followed Tywin’s gaze, feeling the dig of his fingernails into his palm as he wondered about every possible way the conversation could go. Hating that he let slip that Sansa was here, and his.

           Tywin only said, “I would hate to see something happen to that girl. She’s already lost her parents.”

           Petyr restrained himself. There was no use in revealing himself to Tywin, not when he’d slipped up last week. “Sucks to be her.” Petyr hated that answer, but there were few that wouldn’t arouse the Lion’s suspicions.

           Tywin turned back from his grandson to Petyr. There was no grandfatherly twinkle to his eye, or even the barest hint of a smile, kind or otherwise. “See that the trial goes in our favor again.”

           Hanging in the air between them was the unspoken  _ Or else. _

* * *

           Was it better or worse that Petyr still had Sansa’s first gift with him? A sick sort of reminder of what she had done – and all on her own! – kept snuggled in his back pocket, or carefully buried in his suitcase, or clenched tightly as he worked through the pent up stress and lust upstairs that afternoon. There wasn’t anything better than the momentary relief and blissful forgetfulness of jacking off. Like nothing else mattered or existed in the world save for the ache in his cock and the wild imaginations – no,  _ memories _ .

           Was it better or worse that Petyr wanted to buy Sansa so many other gifts? A new set of lingerie since he had so unceremoniously  _ ruined _ half of this set (of which, after a bit of coercing, Kella revealed that she  _ had _ went with Sansa to buy it. “For a special someone,” the housekeeper said with a devilish smile. Petyr prayed to the gods it had been for  _ him _ and not that fucker). There were other gifts, too: the continuing advancement of her  _ lessons _ in sin; the promise of a wonderful first time, and then even better times thereafter. And other gifts, too, like making sure she was happy, that she was safe.

           Petyr didn’t know when those thoughts crawled in between the thick sludge of sin.

           It wasn’t the first time Petyr had thought of gifts (he  _ did _ go out of his way to buy her a dildo, after all, which some might say was a level worse than lingerie). And he had been keen to peruse the store in Highgarden just before he flew back, if he hadn’t bothered to book the earliest possible flight. Looking through lingerie and imagining Sansa in them, or spending time with her watching her come as he stroked his cock? Not a difficult choice. 

           Petyr craved a much-needed distraction from the fuckery that was his job, knowing that he would need to go in to work early tomorrow. So much for taking his time with her. Slowly, thoughtfully, Petyr flipped through the assortment of barely-there bras and panties, taking care to analyze how each would accentuate Sansa’s curves, or tease him with the prospect of the goods hidden beneath soft silks and lace. It didn’t take long for his cock to get hard. 

           The attendants eyed him curiously. One (unfortunately) eyed him with a glimmer in her eye. Petyr only smiled at her as she purposefully brushed near him to show where the garish pink sets were for Valentine’s Day. They wouldn’t know him – Petyr never took Lysa here (he shivered at the thought. And again, at the horrid memories of Lysa  _ trying _ to be someone much younger and much prettier. If it weren’t for her name, Petyr couldn’t imagine anyone willingly taking her as wife). Petyr flashed them sly smiles and warm platitudes, with excuses that he was looking for a gift for his  _ special someone _ come Valentine’s Day, which was approaching nearly as fast as Sansa’s birthday. It did well enough as an excuse.

           Better than the excuse was his imagination. Walking into the store with Sansa on his arm, letting her browse through all of the options available to her, and not at all caring when she balked at the price tags. Nothing was too good for her, Petyr knew. He would stand beside her, one hand possessively on her waist or thigh or ass (would Petyr allow her to wear underwear? Likely not. Too much fabric to bother with for access her cunt). Watching the subtle changes on her face – the little scrunch of her nose at lingerie she deemed  _ too much _ ; the lick of her tongue as her eyes traced the lines of the fabric, picturing herself in it, picturing Petyr admiring it. 

           With an armload of ones to try and a generous tip to the attendants to  _ look the other way _ (at least, until they got used to Petyr’s antics, because by the gods would Petyr make this a recurring errand for them), he’d follow Sansa into the dressing room. She would definitely object at first. Call it outright  _ improper _ – even after the things he’d done to her! – before realizing it was a lost cause on her part. Petyr would make her try on every single one. Slowly, meticulously trace over every inch of skin and lace, as if Petyr had never seen Sansa’s beauty before. 

           And then fuck her senseless in them.

           Petyr would have to buy them all, how  _ ruined _ they would be with their frenzied desire.

           Of course, there would need to be better excuses for  _ that _ . A girl less than half his age, and a man with eyes (and hands) unable to keep themselves off her? Oh, the stories these attendants would whisper the second Petyr and Sansa left the store. Petyr would need  _ very _ good excuses. Or, just a lot of money. 

           He was too high on his wicked imaginings to even consider  _ not _ doing that. Perhaps as part of his birthday gift to her, in addition to taking her for the first time. As a belated and well-deserved  _ thank you _ for all the sin Sansa willingly let Petyr perform, and leave stained on her skin.

           Oh, the  _ fun _ they were going to have.

           Petyr glanced up from a particularly naugty set of bright red lingerie (the cups were sheer lace, more holes than fabric, in truth) to see a young couple walk past him. The boy reeked of fresh money, too willing to spend it on the first thing with big breasts and a receptive mouth. At least the girl knew how to use what she had.

           Through the window, Petyr saw him. Sandy-colored hair, leering at the mannequins in front. How long he’d been there just outside the store, Petyr couldn’t say. He subtly stroked his cock through his pants (thinking no one could see him? Or was that just the sort of terrible person he was?). With a pained expression, he turned and left.

           Cautiously, Petyr followed the boy, avoiding the attendant’s pressing request to  _ come again soon _ .

           He wasn’t being covert at all. Part of it must have been drink – footsteps swaying  _ just enough _ that he wasn’t in his right mind, but also just enough that he wouldn’t give Petyr a second look should he realize someone was following him. The boy checked his phone, once, twice, staring at the street signs. Lamps flickered on as the sun lowered in to kiss the ocean off in the distance.

           Petyr nearly lost him crossing the streets, swearing at the influx of cars. No one in King’s Landing knew how to drive. At least, well. They knew how not to crash into each other, but even that was a low bar.

           Rushing past the intersection, Petyr caught sight of the boy over a crowd of smartly-dressed men bragging about some project win. He turned into a an alley, footprints from a puddle (hopefully water, likely not) lining his movements.

           Another turn at the next street, and down a serpentine alley. Petyr pressed himself against the building’s wall, doing his best to pay attention to the boy and not the sudden reek of human piss. Petyr already decided to throw away this suit, not willing to trust that the vapors of backstreet depravity could be removed with a thorough dry cleaning or five.

           “There you are,” the boy said, running his fingers through his hair. He definitely was drunk, the trailing sound of his  _ are _ slurring into a hiccup.

           A woman stepped out from a cursory alley, cigarette smoke following her short footsteps. The dress she wore barely covered her ass. Deep red curls bunched up around her shoulders. Likely wearing makeup that made her look younger than she actually was (and hiding all of the horrors she’d been paid to do, all for the sake of mens’ twisted fantasies). She took another long drag of the cigarette, eyeing the boy.

           Not Sansa. But if Petyr squinted, or drank a few too many whiskeys, the whore was just as beautiful. Maybe more so, depending on how desperate Petyr was for the briefest touch or taste of her.

           The boy (whatever his name was, Petyr was growing tired of not remembering who he was, but didn’t care enough to ask his name) passed the whore a small wad of bills. As she counted them, she asked, “Who do you want me to be tonight, sugar?”

           “Just…” he began. Douchebag finally had the common sense to look down both sides of the alley. Shadows covered Petyr, and against his better judgement, he pressed against the wall harder. Gods, it smelled so bad. “No one. Yourself, I guess.” He reached out to touch her hair, suddenly overcome with the notion that he  _ owned _ her.

           She let him, though not without disgust lining her body. He was fresh meat. The woman saw this was going to be an easy night, tucking the bills in her bra. Stubbing out her cigarette with a tall heel, her voice matched the sickly sweet smile. “My place or yours?”

           Douchebag shook his head, fingers unbuttoning his pants. So helplessly eager. “Here’s fine.” 

_ At least go to a cheap hotel _ , Petyr thought. Less regrets when he’d wake up with a hangover, a half-flaccid cock, and several hundred bucks poorer.

           With practice, the woman bent down on her knees and finished pulling out Douchebag’s cock. It took a few strokes before she began sucking on him, the wet sounds of her mouth and the boy’s mangled moans echoing off the walls.

           Interesting. 

           Petyr tried to remember whatever scant details Sansa had indulged Petyr when he had confronted her about her date. Nothing in particular. All he could remember was the way the boy was touching her. The way the boy made her smile, laugh. The way the boy was  _ this close _ to having her for himself.

           Because she was  _ Petyr’s _ . She didn’t belong with some random, upjumped university student that wouldn’t know the first thing to do with a woman in bed. Who took her smiles and charm at face value, and itched to get beneath her dress. Throw her away once he had his fill.

           Douchebag groaned as he came. Must have ordered the whore to swallow it all. Seconds later, he led her down a street, finally to a hotel where he’d live out the rest of that failed date. 

           Very interesting. It wasn’t the act itself that Petyr cared about. Hells, he might have been desperate enough to do the same, if Sansa hadn’t been so responsive, so interested. As much as Petyr detested what the fucker was doing, there was a part of him that just  _ knew _ how deep the ache sat within his very soul. No, it wasn’t a back-alley blowjob that Petyr cared about. It was this ramshackle facade that any street whore  _ could _ match up to the truth of Sansa. It was this absolute desperation in the boy to have the slightest  _ taste _ of what Sansa was like.

           Petyr laughed as he made his way back into the throng of people headed home from work. Laughed as he was already thinking of what he was going to make Sansa do – the  _ real _ Sansa, not some cheap copy of her filtered through money and alcohol and drugs. Still, Petyr would make sure he knew what exactly the douchebag asked of the whore, and whether his desperation was a concern or not. Better to have dirt on him  _ just in case _ . And why stop there? Better to get rid of the fucker and keep Sansa all to himself.

_ Mine mine mine. _

* * *

           “Did you have a good day without me?” Carefully, Petyr shucked out of his coat, folding it backwards so the filth of King’s Landing wouldn’t tarnish anything else in his home. He’d decided against burning it. It was a particularly delightful shade of charcoal grey, and the tailor put in extra care to make sure it fit Petyr along every seam. Would be a shame to get rid of it that easily. 

           Sansa looked up from her phone. She had a towel wrapped around her hair and loose-fitting clothes. Petyr felt the soft mugginess of warm air. He tried not to purse his lips at the fact that she’d cleansed herself of their shared sin. Though, it might be too much to ask her to keep his come on her forever. It was better this way. Petyr would have a reason to take her every night: to mar her, claim her as his. Untainted, perfect skin waiting for his marks.

           But more than that, Petyr had the sudden urge to go to her, lean over the couch, and kiss her on the lips. Like how he should have done as a loving husband. He might have with Lysa – it was hard to remember – putting on a facade for her  _ just enough _ to keep the woman from screaming into the void about the truth of their relationship. It had always been a game with her. 

           But with Sansa? With his niece? Petyr had to fight against such notions he never willingly would have done to the woman his same age. Often he thought about that.

           And often, he thought about less  _ tender _ things. Petyr did go up to the couch, leaning against it, the bunch up coat in one hand and his other resting lightly atop the back cushion. He scratched at the seam with a fingernail. Smiled at his niece, as though nothing was astray, and him coming home to ask her trivialities was a norm. He repeated his question.

_ Did you miss the feeling of my cock rubbing against your aching cunt?  _

           Petyr managed to keep the second question from passing his lips (though he was incredibly tempted to, just to see the spreading flush taint her cheeks pink at the memory).

           “My day was...uneventful,” she said flatly. Sansa was clever to see the hidden question, treading lightly with her words. Which made him wonder just how carefully or not it was hidden on his face? In the lazy motions of his fingers? Likely not hidden at all. “How was yours?”

           Petyr was growing restless at the small talk (really, it had only been a sentence),  _ needing  _ her already. His fingers pressed against the cushion in a petty attempt to keep them from jolting out to touch porcelain skin. Was it a trick of his perverted mind, or had Sansa’s legs parted just a fraction more? For him, as needing as he was. “It was the same as always, I think? Boring cases and boring bosses.”

           Sansa noticed his jacket then. “Is there something wrong with it?”

           A shrug. “It just got a little dirty, is all.” Not a lie, of which Petyr was proud of.

           “I see.”

           Enough of this. Petyr rounded the couch, perching atop the same arm that Sansa had her hands dug into as he humped her through the blanket. Would that could happen again... “Have you touched yourself today, sweetling?”

           Sansa stared at him with wide eyes, the tip of her tongue peeking out from the corner of her lips. She did that a lot – to tease him? Petyr liked to think so. She was so innocent, but she was a fast learner. Still, the sudden change of conversation caught her off guard. “I…”

           “I was thinking tonight would be perfect to teach you how to use your new toy, hm?” The smile he gave her was the furthest thing from kind. The furthest thing an actual kind, loving father or uncle might bestow. Because kind, loving fathers didn’t imagine doing wicked things to their daughters or nieces – especially not with the thought of  _ preparing _ her for when he would take her in a week.

           Sansa blushed. It was a different shade of pink from the one that overtook her skin when she came. Nonetheless, it was beautiful. She was beautiful.

           “I…” she repeated, dumbstruck. 

           Petyr lowered his free hand, dragging it along the cushion beside her leg. He could feel the heat of her seep into his fingers. “If you don’t want to, sweetling, we don’t have to.”  _ But I would prefer it if you do _ .

           It was the  _ illusion _ of choice, of course, that made it easier for Sansa to swallow the sin Petyr was oh-too-willing to feed her. The illusion of power that Sansa had over him. With a shake of her head, with a simple “No,” she could shove Petyr’s desperate ass through the window down to the streets below. Though, he wondered how much of it truly was an illusion. Look at him! Look at the fucker who paid a mockery of Sansa for the taste of what those pretty pink lips might feel like around his cock. Or what those pretty pink lips might say when he went balls deep in her pretty little virgin cunt.

           He licked his lips. Tightened the grip on his jacket. Waiting. 

           It  _ definitely _ was the scene he saw that put him so on edge right now. That, and the fact that what he and Sansa had done yesterday was  _ just the beginning _ . That with precise wording and gentle coaxing, Petyr wouldn’t have to wait in desperate solitude for her birthday.

           What had he called himself? A monster? Yes, that was fitting. What sort of monster preyed on his niece like this? Sure, she might  _ consent _ to the sin, even initiate it, but by the Seven Petyr knew he should be a better man than to let his cock lead his actions.

           Too bad he was past that point tonight. Tomorrow morning, maybe he’d find that guilt, that shame, and regret what he was doing. Maybe.

           Sansa, meanwhile, struggled through her own turmoil. One hand had been lazily dragging upwards towards a breast (on its own, though not without reason. Sansa likely couldn’t stop thinking about the way Petyr’s cock felt rubbing against her. Nor wondering what it might feel like inside her). She stopped her hand before it found its destination atop a breast. “If...If that’s what you want, Petyr.”

           He silently sighted at the sound of his name. Gods, imagine the way she would say it when she came? 

           Petyr maneuvered his roaming hand around her right leg and up between the part of her legs, as high as he could willingly go knowing instinct wouldn’t take over. He didn’t fail to notice Sansa’s breath hitching as he trailed higher. Only to her knees. A pity. “It’s not about what  _ I _ want, sweetling.” Teasing her an inch higher. Would she tell him to stop if he continued? Testing it with another inch. Sansa only parted her legs, just enough that there was a lewd measure of propriety between his wandering fingers and her skin. 

           Reluctantly, Petyr pulled his hand away, resting on the back cushion. Far enough away that he wouldn’t be tempted. Again. 

           “You need to use your words, Sansa.” Because it would only make that shadow of guilt less darker, if Sansa said she did want it. And it would only make his cock ache to be deep inside her, as she begged and moaned and pleaded for him to finally let her come. 

           That, and watching her squirm with the truth was too delicious an opportunity to pass up. Sansa  _ wanted _ it. This. Him. Having to speak the truth of her wicked mind only cemented the fact that she wasn’t nearly as innocent as demure smiles would have fools believe. 

           Licking her lips, she found her voice. “Yes, I. Please, Petyr.

           He offered her a hand and a terrible smile. “Come, sweetling.” Taking her hand, he argued, wasn’t sexual, so it was fine. Taking her hand so he could lead her to her bedroom and show her how to use a dildo, however? A little less fine. But for now it was fine, so long as Petyr managed to keep his hand from finding purchase anywhere else. Then there wasn’t a problem with taking her hand.

           The only problem was doing just that. His skin itched to roam freely over the expanse of her skin, beneath clothes, up and around and inside. Carving every inch of her into the memory of his fingers. 

           He instructed her to get the gift as he made a quick detour to toss his jacket unceremoniously beside the hamper, toeing off his shoes too. If he wasn’t so eager, he might have changed clothes. 

           When he returned to her room, Petyr watched as Sansa slowly undid the bow to her gift. She’d tossed her towel by her pillow, half-wet strands of auburn clinging to her cheeks, her neck. Cautiously, Sansa pulled her gift out, as if it was some alien specimen. She acted that way, and it was laughable. Petyr remembered the glint in her eye as he jacked off in front of her. She had been eager, interested, in touching his cock, and now? Suddenly afraid of a replica.

           But in a few minutes, Sansa would be aching for more than it.

           “Best to wash it first.” He followed her into the bathroom, letting her get accustomed to the shape as she innocently cleaned it with lewd strokes. Petyr mimicked her motions, suddenly jealous of plastic.

           Back in her bedroom. Sansa was still dressed in her pajamas, and Petyr felt his cock straining against his suit pants. She sat cross-legged on the bed, the dildo in her hand, and a blush across her face.

           Petyr cut straight to the lesson: “Would you like to use your hands, or your mouth?”  _ Or your cunt? _

           She twirled the plastic in her hand, unable to fathom that  _ this was happening _ . Neither could Petyr, but for a different reason. He stared at her delicate fingers, the way her thumb unknowingly traced circles over the head. How she scratched a line down its length. When he finally broke his gaze to look up at her, she was focused on him. So much for unknowingly touching it. And so much for pretending that Petyr wasn’t excited as all hells. Didn’t even bother containing the smirk he felt pulling on his lips. Especially as her voice filled the quiet spaces between heartbeats. “What would  _ you _ like to teach me?”

           Oh, Sansa was  _ clever _ , he would give her that. If Petyr wasn’t certain she had absolute reservations against it, Sansa would make every man beg at her knees just for a taste of her cunt. She could make a lot of money in a single night, more than most people made in a year.

           Petyr sat down beside her, too close to make-pretend about propriety. There was no point in lying, not anymore. Petyr leaned in, one hand hovering over an exposed thigh, the other just above where her own paused their ministrations. Closer, until he pushed away strands of her lovely curls away with the tip of his nose. “Everything, sweetling.”  _ And so much more _ .

           He felt the sliver of air between their cheeks shudder. A strand of auburn tickling his jaw. Petyr leaned back, just enough to stare into her eyes. Darkness met him, a likely mirror of his own. She might be  _ innocent _ and  _ pure _ , but Sansa desperately wanted this – him – too. Of that, Petyr was certain. And even if he  _ wasn’t _ certain, the slight peaking of her nipples or even the heady scent of her desire solidified her need for this. “Though, I think I know what I want to show you tonight.” He added for no other reason than because he wanted to: “But you’ll need to ask nicely.”

           Sansa licked her lips. Sapphire (or what remained of it) never left his. “Please.”

           That was a sound he would never tire of. The sweetest, most wicked syllable in all the world.

           Petyr leaned back just enough to give her space. “Take off your clothes, sweetling.” 

           Her hands stopped. Lips parted just enough to see the tip of her tongue pushing against her teeth. Sansa had to  _ know _ that Petyr wasn’t going to be playing coy, not anymore. Not after last night. 

           Seconds passed, and he said, “Unless you don’t want to learn, Sansa. Then I’ll leave now.” He motioned to move. A hand shot out and grabbed his. Petyr slowly lowered himself back down onto the bed. 

           Sansa released her grip on him, tucking the dildo between her thighs as she lifted her shirt up and off, tossing it beside the discarded towel. 

           Her breasts were just as lovely as Petyr imagined. Big enough to fit in his hands, with nipples as pink as her lips, and already peaked. There wasn’t a hint of his teeth around the nipple he nipped yesterday. A pity.

           Petyr saw the restraint in her arms not to cover herself up. Was this the first time a man saw her chest? Maybe. Petyr was probably the first man to see her cunt, too. It was almost funny how he went  _ backwards _ . “Good. Now, your bottoms.”

           Sansa swallowed her fears, and slipped the rest of her clothes off, sitting back down with her hands in her lap and the dildo in her hands.

           Stunning. Breathtaking. Beautiful.

           Petyr was upset there wasn’t a word just for Sansa. Nothing could compare to her curves, to the stark contrast of her rich hair against ivory skin, or the startling blues of her eyes (so very dark now), staring at him as if perhaps she suddenly could see his soul. It was swirling darkness.

           He’d forgotten to breath in those heavy seconds, taking in a shuddering gulp of air. Fuck. Sansa was too much, he wasn’t sure he would survive fucking her. But what a way to go.

           “You’re beautiful, sweetling…” Petyr murmured, gaze sweeping over her body once more, slower this time. Sansa’s fingers clutched the dildo tightly, not used to being  _ leered _ at so obviously. But the compliment eased the unease. 

           Sansa lifted her gift up, tilting her head. “And this? What should I do with it?”

_ Stick it in your cunt in preparation for my cock _ . 

           Petyr coughed, breathed. This was going to be so difficult not to touch her, not when that’s all his hands wanted to do. There should be an award for this: Not Touching Your Underage Niece While She’s Stark Naked In Front Of You And Literally The Most Stunning Person In The Entire Planet. There was, technically, and it came with a horrid orange jumpsuit and stiff sheets. “Suck on it, sweetling. Imagine it’s my cock in your mouth.”

           She licked her lips, flitting her gaze between it and him (or rather, between it and his cock). “But I…”

           “...don’t know how to give a blowjob?” Sansa jumped at the word (so innocent, it was going to kill him). Petyr leaned one hand on the bed, lazily stroking his cock as he watched her inexperience play out across her face. “You stick it in your mouth, and use your lips and tongue. You can try and take it all in, but I’d rather you not choke.” Sansa startled at that. Petyr had an idea. “Unless you want your first blowjob to be with my cock?”

           That got her. Sansa instinctively raised the dildo to chin-height, staring at the bulge between his legs (one that honestly had been there all day from memories). Petyr chuckled. “Or I can show you some videos. Though granted, those cocks might be, ah, bigger than that one, or mine.”

           “I…” Sansa began, trying to parse whether he was saying truths or jokes. Even Petyr wasn’t sure.

           “Try licking the tip, sweetling. That’s a good place to start.”

           Sansa stared at him all the while, lifting the dildo an inch from her lips. Petyr watched, transfixed. Even if she was inexperienced, and even if it wasn’t actually his cock she was about to taste… 

           She lapped over the tip with her tongue, and Petyr swore his heart stopped for a second.

           That gave her confidence. Sansa did it again, slower this time. The tip of it dragged over her bottom lip. Again, tentatively sucking on the first inch of it before pulling out.

           “Like that?”

           If Petyr didn’t know better, he would have sworn Sansa was playing him. Good gods.  _ Good gods _ . He knew it was going to be sexy as all hells, but...nothing prepared him for the reality of watching his niece suck a dildo.

           He remembered she asked a questioned, tried to think what it was. “I...yes. Just like that, sweetling.” Sansa smiled, pleased that she was doing it right. “Try and take it in a little further. And use your hands.”

           She was listening intently, nodding. So attentive, so curious. And so sinful. 

           Sansa did as she was told, combining the newness of her mouth with the memory of Petyr jacking off in front of her. She was much too slow for Petyr’s taste, but damn if it wasn’t seductive. Damn if Petyr couldn’t feel the ghost of her tongue running along the length of his cock, or the pull of her lips as she wrapped around the head, pushing it in another inch, and another.

           She watched him all the while. Smiling when his breath caught.

           “Give it.”

           Sansa slowly pulled the dildo from her mouth, a trail of saliva connecting her lips to the head. A crease sat heavy between her brows. A throb pulsed along Petyr’s cock.

           Petyr stretched out his hand. This was a  _ terrible _ idea, but gods if he wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass. He was already going to hell, anyways. “Trust me, sweetling. Like last night.” A wink.

           She did, wiping away the errant saliva with a thumb. It was then that Petyr realized she had parted her thighs, and between her legs sat her lovely pink cunt already glistening with need. Sansa had been as turned on as he was. 

           Good.

           “Spread your legs further, sweetling.” Sansa tilted her head, but did as she was told. Petyr meanwhile trailed a finger along the length of the dildo, still warm from her mouth and hands. He watched her lower lips spread open, waiting and wanting. “Good, just like that.”

           “What are you…?” she began, eyeing his hands, his cock.

           Petyr gave her a wicked smile. “There’s another hole dildos are good for.”

           It wasn’t hard to understand where he was going. Sansa blushed. “Oh, I. Will I–"

           "–you can stroke my cock, Sansa. Since I stole that from you last night.” He winked at her, the flurry of memories washing over him. What he would give to live in that moment forever, just him and his Sansa and endless time to fuck.

           Wheels turned in her head. “But… If I’m, um, touching you, then…”

           The smile grew wider. “Yes, sweetling. I thought it only  _ kind _ to show you how to take a man’s cock. Or, I suppose it’s only a dildo.” For now.

           Sansa’s lips parted further, disbelief washing over her face. She should have  _ known _ , or at least  _ expected _ such depravity from Petyr. What else was he good for? Besides, it was (as it had been) her choice. Sansa could say  _ No thanks _ and Petyr (thought upset) would quietly leave her to sleep.

           But something inside him  _ knew _ that Sansa wouldn’t give up. Especially not when her cunt was aching.

           And she didn’t. Sansa slowly nodded, in too deep to back out.

           Petyr positioned them, Sansa slightly leaning back to allow for better access, and him kneeling in front of her, her hand resting just to the side of his cock. He made sure to find a dildo that wasn’t  _ bigger _ than him, because: one, he didn’t want to scare Sansa away; two, he wanted to  _ prepare _ her, of course, and wouldn’t do go to get her cunt anxiously hopeful for something bigger than he could provide.

           “Just like you did earlier,” he instructed, as Sansa cautiously placed her hand atop of his length. Petyr bit his lip, trying to contain how many hitched breaths he was going to have tonight. But, gods. Just, just gods.

           “Good, a little bit faster, sweetling.”

           Once Sansa found a rhythm, Petyr began dutifully working her to completion.

           He teased her entrance with the head of the dildo, twirling around and around her outer lips, listening to Sansa’s breathing as he neared the slit and Sansa’s disappointment when he pulled away. 

           This was too much fun.

           “I’m going inside you now.”

           Sansa nibbled the tip of her tongue, looking up at him from where his hand toyed with her cunt. She nodded. Waited, only Petyr wasn’t going to enter her until he heard that delectable sound again.

           “Please.”

           There it was.

           “It’s going to be bigger than your fingers, and it might feel uncomfortable at first. But trust me, sweetling, it’ll feel good.”

           She nodded again, and Petyr didn’t feel like chiding her for the fact that her hand had slowed to a crawl over his cock. No matter. He wanted to take care of her first, anyways.

           Petyr dragged the head of the dildo up and down her slit, gently pushing into her with each pass. Sansa’s gasps grew heavier the deeper Petyr went. Her hips were starting to roll, matching the slow, steady pace of the head. In, out, up, down, over and over. Petyr watched as her lips greedily wrapped around the head of the dildo, greedily let go as he pulled it away. 

           His cock strained in his pants, desperate to replace the dildo in his hand. And by the gods, he was tempted. He could tell Sansa to close her eyes, and have himself deep inside her. He could relish in her cunt pulsating agianst him, with him, their hips moving in tandem to a unified orgasm. 

_ Not yet _ .

           But Seven hells was  _ not yet _ feeling so much longer with each passing day.

           Another inch Petyr went in. Pulling out, pushing in, making sure Sansa was comfortable by the sounds she made, by her own rhythm that she was slowly succumbing to. 

           “You’re doing great, sweetling,” Petyr murmured, running the head along her slit again before dipping back inside. “Just a little bit more.”

           Sansa nodded, too lost in the feeling to process anything else.

           Again, in and out. Again. Petyr’s fingers were drawing dangerously close to brushing against her inner thighs. He forwent the last third for the sake of keeping alive that damn tule –  _ no touching _ – even though  _ this _ crossed at least a hundred new lines. At least.

           He fucked her with the dildo, picking up the speed. He fucked her hand, too, desperate for friction as much as he was desperate for her release. 

           Sansa was close. He heard it in the short gasps, saw it in the roll of her body. Petyr caught his free hand before it made contact. Fuck, this was torture. “Sweetling.” Sansa drowsily blinked her eyes open. She was barely here, too caught up in the build up of her orgasm. Her body was in control, now, not her brain. It’s only purpose was to urge on that sweet release, hips rolling back and forth in tune with Petyr’s hands. “Sweetling,” he said louder.

           She made a noncommittal noise, unwilling to pull herself down from her release.

           Which was fine, Petyr only wanted to  _ help _ her with it. “Touch your clit, sweetling. I want you to come.”

           Sansa used her free hand to touch herself, Petyr careful not to touch her hand. Her other remembered its task, pushing against Petyr’s cock as he fucked her, with cock and dildo. A combination he would  _ certainly _ repeat. 

           “Oh… Oh  _ fuck _ .”

           Sansa came with only a few strokes to her clit, her hips frozen down against the dildo that Petyr was relentlessly dipping in and out of her, wanting her orgasm to stretch on as long as possible. 

           After reaching its peak, Sansa slid down and against the headboard, hips beginning a continuous, slow roll against Petyr’s ministrations. Riding out the remaining waves of her pleasure, too content to bother opening her eyes or closing her lips. There was a hint of a smile there.

           Petyr removed the dildo from her cunt, marveling in how wet she was, how her need trickled down her thighs and staining sheets. He trailed the head of it up the crease of a thigh, over her stomach, around one breast, then the other. By the time he arrived at her collarbone, Sansa’s eyes were open, staring at the mess he was painting on her skin. Petyr raised it, hovering the dildo inches from her parted lips. “Taste your need, sweetling.”  _ Taste how wanton you are for me _ .

           She did, opening her mouth and lapping the head of it with her tongue. Sansa made a face – not at all a taste she was expecting. Maybe she would like it more if it were his cock, their shared come coating the length. Regardless, Sansa sucked on it for as deep as Petyr inched it into her mouth. He would have gone further had he not worried she might choke. Petyr smiled at that, at her gasping for air as he fucked her face. Oh, Sansa would learn to take all of him, to swallow all of his come.

           “Good job, sweetling.”

           Sansa smiled up at him. In her afterglow, she reached up with her hands, as if to hug. 

           That was a line too far, wasn’t it? Intimacy after sex. Yes, too far past that crooked boundary whose edge had been redrawn countless times in the past few days. Petyr wasn’t sure where it was anymore.

           Instead, he stared at her left hand, at her need coating the tips.

           He snatched her fingers, pulling her arm towards him, placing her fingers in his mouth. Sansa gasped. Watched with wide eyes, unmoving. But didn’t stop Petyr – or question him – as he suckled her need off of her. Tongue wrapping around one finger, then the other. Pulling her hand deeper into his mouth to lap lingering come from the webs.

           It was a step over that imaginary boundary, probably a massive leap. But Petyr couldn’t help himself. It was  _ torture _ . This was worse than not having Sansa at all: an endless tease of what Petyr was dying to have – literally inches from him! – and being bound by a shred of morality not to take and take and take. A lesser man would have already. And each passing day, passing hour, Petyr was wondering if he would stoop that low.

           Because by the gods, she tasted divine. Petyr couldn’t stop sucking her fingers, desperate for any taste of her. Marveling at the mix of confusion and newfound need on Sansa’s face as she watched all the while.  _ It’s not her actual cunt I’m tasting _ , he thinly rationalized. Which was good, and bad. Good: there was still morality to him to keep from diving between her thighs. Bad: it only made him hungrier to dip inside her, tongue and fingers and cock.

           There was only one more week. Only six more days. 

           Reluctantly, Petyr slipped his mouth free of her fingers. Placed a chaste kiss to the pads of them, so at odds with the sin he just cleaned off of them. “I don’t think you know how good you taste, sweetling.”

           Sansa’s gaze flickered from his eyes, down, and back up again. “Can I… Do you taste as .”

           Petyr had a terrible vision: pulling Sansa down onto his cock, hands fisted in her hair, as he fucked her mouth without care. Listening to her gags as he thrust deeper and deeper. Hoping the taste of his seed imprinted itself deep on her tongue that she would wake up every morning knowing the taste and feel of his cock. 

           Instead, he asked, “Would you like to taste it, sweetling?”  _ Taste what you do to me. _

           The struggle was plain on her face: this wasn’t something a good girl like Sansa Stark would do,  _ ever _ . Petyr could feel the frantic echo of her heart where his hand grasped hers. Still, they both knew Sansa was far, far too deep in this charade to  _ pretend _ she was a good girl. An innocent girl, yes, but not good, not anymore. There was no going back now to the sweet, pure thing that walked into Petyr’s life a week ago. Not as if he was going to willingly let her go.

           With a knowing lick of her lips, Sansa nodded. Petyr opened his mouth to remind her to  _ use your words _ when she added, “Yes, please. I want to...taste you, Petyr.”

           That terrible vision magnified ten-, twentyfold. 

           He shook it away. “You’ll need to finish me, first, sweetling.”

           Embarrassment mixed with desire, realizing that Petyr had given her a(n arguably) fucking great orgasm, and she had shucked her duties in lieu of losing herself. Sansa sat up straight, determination replacing her features. She stroked him once, twice, before stopping, Glancing up at Petyr, then wandering her fingers north. Undoing the clasp, and the zip, letting it free one tooth at a time.

           Oh, now Sansa wanted to play with fire. Petyr watched her fingers work, counting down the breaths until the zipper was fully undone and she stared at the bulge of him beneath black briefs. She ran one finger down the length, and the feel of it sent shivers curling his toes. 

           Finally, Sansa looked up at him, as if asking for confirmation a little to late. “It’s...as long as I don’t  _ touch _ you, right?”

           To hells with it. 

           Petyr nodded.

           Sansa blinked back down to her task. She trailed her finger back up the other side. Grabbing hold of it through the thin fabric – Petyr gasped at the pressure, afraid he might come already like a fucking teenager. Sansa remembered more than he gave her credit for, stroking and grabbing, pushing and pulling, with a similar speed and pressure that Petyr had shown her. It made his cock twitch just thinking about the fact that his Sansa had been so curious, had memorized the way he jerked off in front of her.

           Petyr was getting close, had already been on the edge. He countered her movements, hips rolling against her. Needing the friction. He stared at her parted legs, at the pink cunt wet with need – with need that  _ he had fucked out of her _ – and that was it.

           He groaned as he came.

           Fuck. 

           Fuck, it was going to feel so fucking good once they could touch skin to skin. 

           Petyr waited for his heart to settle into a moderate beating before pulling his cock free of his underwear. A sticky trail of his come clung to the fabric (a pity, he rather liked this pair). He pumped himself once, twice, coating his fingers with his need. Lifted them out for Sansa, a wicked gift he never thought he would give his niece.

           Sansa took it, copying his motions from earlier. Her tongue was fucking divine, so soft and explorative. There was more come on his fingers than there had been on hers, and Sansa dutifully licked up every single bit of it. 

           Petyr swore he was  _ this close _ to coming again.

           She let go of his fingers, wiping away stray bits of saliva and come from her lips with her tongue. And she fucking  _ smiled _ . 

           “You taste good, too, Petyr.”

           It was a heavenly act of self-restraint not to take his niece right now. Something was pulling him towards her. Something (many things) were yelling at him to do it, to hell with all the consequences. He wanted it. She wanted it. 

           Sansa was a fucking piece. Too angelic, too beautiful; and so wickedly sinful, she didn’t even know half of the thoughts and desires that plagued Petyr. That pulled him further and further down in the sea, watching the waves lap above him.

           For lack of knowing what to say (other than “I’m going to take your cunt now”), Petyr nodded. Tried to smile too, but wasn’t sure it had the same weight. 

           A final thought whispered its way into his mind. Petyr leaned in and placed a single kiss on Sansa’s cheek, feeling her smile fade and muscles gasp at the innocence of it. “Good night, sweetling.”

           That’s what loving uncles did, right? Leave soft kisses of goodbye and wish sweet dreams of their nieces? Petyr could have gone a step further and tucked Sansa in – but he didn’t trust himself not to tuck himself beside her, too. And gods knew exactly where the night would go, then.

           A loving, chaste kiss on the cheek. Nevermind the taste of their desires on their tongues.

 


	12. sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Take it. I’m tired of working on this chapter, so I hope I don't regret not editing it lmao. ]

           When Sansa heard the telltale _ding_ of the elevator, every part of her was on suddenly fire.

           When she saw her uncle standing over her, one hand clutching his jacket and the other the backrest, Sansa wondered if he had brought her another _gift_. One that he expected her to use now (and not later, not still poking out beneath her sweater on the desk. Not still taunting her or haunting her. Or proving to her that the innocent girl that entered these apartments will not be the same innocent girl that goes back home).

           When she watched Petyr  – the way his hand pressed hard against backrest of the couch, veins dancing beneath skin, all in an attempt to keep himself from reaching out and touching her (where? Her legs, between them, digging beneath her clothes? Sansa’s legs parted a bit on their own, as if _anticipating_ just that) – and couldn’t help but fear that he was reading her mind.

           He smiled. A smile unkind. It reached his eyes, but his eyes were dark, torn between her own gaze and roaming over her body. “I was thinking tonight would be perfect to teach you how to use your new toy?”

           Sansa felt her body stiffen. Now. Now was when he wanted to show her his gift. Now was when he expected her thanks for it, in ways that were so _wrong_. If last night was anything to go by... Words bubbled up her throat, but they were little more than choking sounds past her lips.

           All the while Petyr stood there. Watching. Waiting. Sansa swore his body was leaning in slightly more now. Swore that his fingers had moved half an inch closer to where her legs lay (she closed them, but that was only worse, because then Petyr _knew_ ).

           And the rue of it all: Sansa could say _No_ . Sansa could jump away and run out and call the police on this _depraved_ man that so clearly and so desperately wanted to take everything from her. Take and take and take. That’s what he said last time (or maybe it was the time before?). She shouldn’t trust him with anything: with her body or her life or her future. Petyr wasn’t a man she should willingly be beside, let alone willingly let his hands slide over her.

           And the truth of it all: as much as Sansa _knew_ she should say no and tell on him, part of her so clearly and so desperately enjoyed it. Just a little. Just enough to silence the waves of reason and logic ( _he’s your uncle_ , repeated over and over again. And: _he’s so much older than you_ . And: _how far would he take things if you weren’t still underage?_ )

           Petyr watched Sansa in her turmoil. He did that everytime he asked her something. Did he delight in the struggle between what her body wanted and what her mind feared? Of course he did (that devilish smile twitched). Because there were fears, far too many to ostensibly fit inside her mind. So much more than the legal implications of flirting with and fucking (though not _technically_ ) your uncle. What of her marriage to Willas? He was kind, and would never kindly let Petyr live should he know the things he did to his (future) wife. What of Petyr? He had a job and a life outside of this apartment, outside of coming home each night to fuck her. He couldn’t do the same in jail.

           What of her own future?

            _Say no_ , came a tiny shred of reason through it all. Sansa foolishly ignored it. When she snapped back to reality, she realized one of her hands had been moving on its own towards her breasts, as if to physically demonstrate what her thoughts had been about. She stopped herself, but it was too late. Petyr had seen it, and likely imagined a hundred or thousand scenarios. “If… If that’s what you want, Petyr.”

           Perhaps if Sansa acted as though it was _Petyr’s_ doing and _Petyr’s_ wicked mind, then maybe she wouldn’t feel so guilty about it all. Or about leaving him in a week.

           Unfortunately, he saw through her farce. _Use your words_ , he insisted, time and again. Preying on Sansa’s turmoil. Preying on the fact that he needed it to be _Sansa’s_ doing and _Sansa’s_ wicked mind. She hated him for it. She hated herself for even entertaining the thoughts and wild imaginations. She hated how much she loved those terrible fantasies. “Please.” And she did her best to contain her own desperate desire.

           Before she knew it, Sansa sat on her bed (still dressed, but not for long, not if Petyr was going to have his way tonight), with that terrible bit of plastic in her hands. It was simple, hardly an _exact_ replica of the real thing. Sansa lazily twirled it round and round, trying not to think of the implications of having seen an actual cock first. Of having touched it (through fabric, yes, but that didn’t at all mitigate the heat of Petyr’s desire). Surely there were whispered words of a girl’s standing in society who let men do such things. Gods knew her own mother had been against even _dating_ boys back in Winterfell. What would the late Catelyn Stark say now, knowing that her daughter – prim and proper and the epitome of a lady – was sitting here about to learn how to touch a man? Lessons from a man she’d entinced with words and actions, with pleas to scoot closer, with terrible a _quid pro quo_ of getting each other off instead of watching a movie? Lessons from her own uncle, no less.

           When Petyr came back, he was still dressed. To think Sansa entertained the idea that he might barge in naked, already stroking himself to her embarrassment.

           That isn’t to say that the things he said and did didn’t make her cheeks burn red.

           He sat beside her, watching her. Did merely touching the dildo get Petyr off? There was no doubt he was imagining (or remembering) the touch of her on him. He’d managed to keep his own hand to himself. For now.

           Sansa turned his question against him, asking what he would like to teach her. After all, what did she know of pleasing men? After all, there was something about her naivete that turned Petyr on, that had been painfully obvious from their first foray into impropriety in the kitchen. The grin he gave her then was just as wicked as the one pulling on his lips now. Maybe it was worse.

           And then: Petyr leaned in towards her. One hand hovered over her thighs, so close Sansa could feel the heat off his fingers. Thought she felt fingertips brush against her skin (likely the ghost of his touch). His other hand moved to join where she’d been fidgeting with the dildo – to take it from her? – stopping himself before making contact. Upholding their _no touching_ rule for the sake of useless propriety. There was no one else but them to know if they followed it. Or broke it.

           Closer. She thought she felt the ghost of stubble against her cheek as Petyr brushed away the strands of hair around her ear. His breath was hot on her skin. Sansa tried her best not to imagine the feel of it – and his lips – as he trailed down her body.

           “Everything, sweetling.”

           The words tickled her cheek. The words tickled her soul, sending a jolt down from where he was hardly a hair’s breadth away from her, down her neck, slithering down each vertebrae of her spine until it pooled between her legs. Sansa clenched her thighs closed. She swore she could _feel_ Petyr smile. Saw it as he slowly, eventually, moved away, just enough to look into each other’s eyes. There wasn’t a thing called _personal space_ in his vocabulary.

           “But you’ll need to ask nicely.” Damn him. She tried to turn his game on him – and nearly had with the charade of the blanket. But each time, Petyr flipped it back around so he was in control – like he literally flipped her on her back and straddles his legs around hers. Sansa licked her lips. He won. Sansa gave in with a _Please_ (one of many instances, and likely many more victories would be his in these next few days).

           Somehow, his smile crooked further as he instructed her to take off her clothes. His eyes never once left her body, tracing the motions as she lifted her shirt off, discarding it beside the damp towel. Petyr watched, too, as Sansa fought not to cover her breasts. Cold air tickled her nipples. Would Petyr believe her if she lied that it was the air that made them hard, and not him?

           Her shirt wasn’t enough. Petyr needed it _all_.

           Her thumbs paused for a heartbeat, hooked beneath her pajama shorts and underwear. Down, off, and completely exposed. There wasn’t enough room for a heartbeat before Petyr’s eyes were all over her body.

           She felt naked. She _was_ naked, but this felt so...personal. The way Petyr’s gaze devoured more than her skin, more than the dampness between her thighs or the way her breath hitched. Sometimes, she could feel his touch where his eyes lingered, as if his wicked imaginations were made real.

           What _wouldn’t_ Petyr devour had she been of legal age?

           She had her answer already. _Everything, sweetling_.

           He wanted her completely.

           Seconds, minutes, hours. It was hard to tell how much time actually passed beneath his stare. Sansa had nearly forgotten why she was here, naked. Petyr called her beautiful (a quiet murmur, perhaps an involuntary reveal of his thoughts). Sansa shivered at the compliment. Shivered at the warmth it sent coiling through her ribs.

            _What if we weren’t related?_

           Sansa shook the thought away as quick as it came. Focusing instead on the reason she was here. An unconventional lesson in love. Or so she told herself. She needed experience, and Petyr was willing to step in and be her guiding hand. Even if he looked to want to guide her hand upon his naked cock.

           He was entranced. Petyr leaned back, smiled at her _innocence_ as uncouth words spilled easily from his lips. Lazily, he stroked himself through his pants. All the while, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if maybe – _maybe –_ she could somehow turn this back on him. At least for a moment.

           She lifted the dildo to her lips, watching Petyr watch her. Sansa had an _idea_ of what to do, but ideas and reality were more separate than she realized. That, and ideas didn’t have a man sitting within arms’ reach of her, watching so intently she wondered which of them was going to combust first. As her tongue lapped over the plastic – warm from her ceaseless fidgeting – Sansa thought it might be Petyr she was tasting. For the first time.

           His own hand paused, his heart too. Petyr was more than entranced. He was mesmerized, gaze frozen on her mouth. He might have _died_ had a shuddering breath not loosed itself between parted lips.

           She fought against the smile tugging her own mouth. Fought against the growing ache between her legs as she moved to lick it again, slower this time, suckling on the tip before pulling it out with parted lips. All the while hoping it wasn’t her imagination that had Petyr’s body stiffen at her actions, that had his cock growing harder beneath his hand.

           It wasn’t.

           Sansa tilted her head to look at him, letting that smile finally play over her lips in a curious turn. “Like that?”

           Her heart was hammering from the excitement of playing her uncle like this. And also from the fact that they were just getting started tonight. Who knew what horrid things Petyr was going to do to her, with her? At the least she would be able to feel that crushing, overwhelming sensation again. It was too addictive; being able to feel everything and nothing. A weightlessness that tore away everything from her mind save for how good it felt. Still, even with her heart pounding faster and faster, there were so many beats before Petyr found his voice.

           He continued to instruct her, and Sansa oh-too-innocently (and willingly) complied. She sat with her legs bent beneath her, thighs parted enough for Petyr’s view, with the dildo worked between her hands and mouth. It was strange, if not incredibly sexual.

           In the span of those minutes, how often had Petyr imagined himself in the dildo’s place?

           Sansa worked her mouth over the head, taking it in one slow inch at a time. Keeping her gaze locked on her uncle, who couldn’t for the life of him look away. He barely brinked, hardly breathed, as Sansa took it in further. Stroked the free length with her fingers – because they desperately wanted to slink between her own legs had they not been busy doing this. It was an effort not to roll her hips, not to show how much she was turned on, too.

           Petyr’s breath caught as she pulled it in another inch. It was near the back of her throat, and she could feel her body rejecting it (just a bit further and she would be coughing and gagging. Not at all _seductive_ ). Petyr’s hand stilled his stroking for that same heartbeat, as if he had died from the sight of her doing something so lewd.

           Sansa smiled at him with the dildo wrapped around her mouth.

           He practically came undone at the sight of her. She heard it in the heaviness of his voice: “Give it.”

           She tried not to let her smile falter as she pulled it out, wiping her mouth with a thumb. There would have been more than saliva had she been old enough. Petyr thought the same, watching every single movement she made.

           Instinctively, Sansa thought _No_ . Because as strange as it was, she was drunk on the reality of what her actions could do to him. How on the brink he’d been all night each time they debased themselves in their desires. How on the brink he’d been since he first laid eyes on her! Sansa saw it when she walked in with his hands and face all over Myranda. Maybe she didn’t _know_ what it was that had been simmering inside her, but now, _oh now_ how she knew. And gods if it wasn’t the best feeling in the world, no matter how loud her logic was screaming at her.

           But, the moment Sansa would give it to Petyr, she would lose all of her power over him tonight. He _did_ have a limit. Like last night, when she’d been above him and in control, about to touch him. Petyr stole that heady power and played her at her own game. Well, it was _his_ game, always had been.

           But. It felt _fucking good_.

           Seeing her turmoil, Petyr added, “Trust me, sweetling. LIke last night.” And a wink, as if knowing full well the extent of her thoughts.

           Flustered with face red from embarrassment (how could she be embarrassed when she was literally naked in front of him? When she literally just gave him a show?) and from the burning heat flowing through her veins, Sansa relented. Petyr’s fingers brushed against hers as she handed him the dildo, the power, and a small thought worried that she made the wrong choice.

           He positioned her (not with his hands): her legs spread wide enough that any further would be uncomfortable. Petyr’s gaze was glued between her thighs. Doubtless he enjoyed the sight. More than enjoyed it.

           She knew what to expect (what else would happen with her in this compromising position?). Still, she asked. And still, she couldn’t help but blush at the brusque way Petyr stated that he was going to fuck her with the dildo. And in turn, she was going to get him off with her hands.

           Sansa placed her hand on his cock, and she felt him twitch at the contact. Cautiously she worked the length of him, slow strokes, finding more and more confidence as she moved. Until he urged _faster_. She did, squeezing him tighter, too. His breath caught. Sansa listened to them, figuring out a rhythm that made her chest ache every time Petyr momentarily lost himself to her touch.

           But, Petyr was relentlessly evil. Toying around her entrance and along her slit with the head of the dildo (still wet from her mouth). Not once daring to dip inside of her. Not until he said as much, and waited for her consent. He trailed the head along her opening, and Sansa felt a shudder run from the top of her spine to the bottom. Good gods, she wasn’t going to survive the night.

           “Please.”

            _Gentleman_ wasn’t a word she would use to describe her uncle. At least, it wouldn’t be one of the first words that came to mind. But it was gentlemanly in the wicked sense that he always waited for her _Please_ ’s.

           Half of it was for Petyr’s amusement. She noticed each time his body stiffened as she said it, as if it was the magical word that would undo him completely. It worked now. But half of it was also for herself, because gods damn it if Sansa wasn’t so turned on right now, she couldn’t imagine not coming. And if last night was any indicator, then Petyr knew _exactly_ what he was doing. She couldn’t deny how much _better_ it felt him touching her (even if it was through a blanket, or now through proxy). She couldn’t deny how much she wanted _him_.

           He’d been right about it being different than fingers. Sansa lolled her head back as Petyr dipped the head inside of her. Pulling out, and pushing back in just a bit further.

           She forgot about his own cock for a while, losing herself in this push-and-pull rhythm. In the filling sensation of the dildo as it dipped in further and further. Just when he pushed it in far enough for it to start being uncomfortable, Petyr would pull out, let her adjust, and slide it back in. It felt like no time and forever until Sansa felt the faint brush of his knuckles against her skin, and wondered if Petyr was just as aware of that connection as she was.

            _Use your fingers. Please._ Sansa opened her mouth, the words lost in a breathy moan.

           But their whole facade of propriety (or what was left of it, shattered to smithereens nights ago) would crumble to dust. As much as she wanted it – and as much as she entertained another idea – Sansa bit her tongue. Letting her hips move with Petyr’s hand.  Letting her own hand work along his cock, his own hips moving in tandem with hers. They were in sync. Even their breaths hitched at the same time.

           She was vaguely aware of his compliments: _You’re doing great, sweetling, just a bit more_. They sent a different sort of warmth coursing through her, not nearly as hot as the desire that had her moving faster. She was so close.

           “Touch your clit.”

           Her free hand moved between her legs. Sansa didn’t bother being demure or careful. She just wanted – _needed_ – to come, now, right now.

           Close, so close. She couldn’t imagine it feeling any better than it had last night.

           But it did.

           Sansa collapsed back against the bed, letting her hips ride out the waves of her orgasm. Gods. Gods. Gods. She tried to find a single coherent thought in the haze of her mind, but there wasn’t one. Not even the usual: _You shouldn’t have let your uncle fuck you with a dildo_.

           Warm wetness trailed up and up her stomach, around a breast, before she smelled the sharpness of her need. Sansa managed to open her eyes, finding Petyr above her, holding the dildo slick with her need just above her lips. Petyr asked her (told her) to taste herself.

           She did, her mouth taking in the head of the dildo and the bitterness of herself. It was a strange taste, not one she could place. A worrying thought finally broke through the haze: that in these vulnerable moments after her orgasm, she would allow him to do _anything_ , if he managed to get her to do this.

           If Petyr asked her to fuck her with his cock, she wasn’t sure she would say no.

           “Good job, sweetling.”

           Sansa smiled. His words felt as good as her release, filling her with another lightness. She suddenly felt warm, content. Something had her body moving before she could pull herself back. A hug. She wanted a hug, wanted to wrap herself around Petyr and tell him...what? Thank you for the orgasm? Thank you for being a terrible, wicked, horrible uncle and debasing your niece like this in her own bed? Or maybe nothing. Maybe it was just a hug, the warmth of another person, that she craved.

           She didn’t get that far. Petyr snatched her left hand before it managed to wrap around him. The warmth of his tongue snapped her out of her haze.

            _Don’t-!_  Caught on her lips.

           His tongue was thorough, exploring every bit of her fingers as he could. Cleaning her come off of them, going so far as to lick between the webs. Sansa tried to remember how to breathe, but she couldn’t. She stared at him, felt the wet heat of his tongue. Tried not to imagine it trailing over the rest of he body. Or inside it.

           A smile – not quite wicked, but far from kind. “I don’t think you know how good you taste, sweetling.”

           She suddenly wondered what he tasted like.

           Petyr instructed her to finish him off, and she did, going so far as to undo the fly of his pants and stroke him through his underwear. It was so much different than touching him above the pants. Sansa could feel the shape of him beneath her fingers, felt his cock twitch under her ministrations. Her thumb trailed over a vein on the side of his cock as she moved up and down, faster and faster. Petyr had been close already; he didn’t last long.

           Per their rule, she couldn’t touch him directly (a sham of a rule! What did a flimsy bit of cloth matter in the end). Regardless, Petyr pumped some come onto his hand. Lifted up sticky fingers for her. Sansa copied him, taking them in her mouth and licking his fingers with as much care and meticulousness as he offered hers. His come was saltier, still strange to taste. But she did her duty and worked until it was all gone.

           Petyr was as reluctant to move away. The loss of his fingers was something Sansa tried not to dwell on (or the fact that she felt them move, exploring her mouth). There was a stray trail of his need on her lips. She wiped it away with her tongue. Smiling afterwards. “You taste good, too. Petyr.”

           Was it her smile that undid him? The taste of his skin and come on her tongue? Or his name, echoing in the quiet breaks between their frantic hearts?

           Petyr stared at her, suddenly miles away.

           He only managed a nod, and that was good enough for Sansa. She might not know what to say to make him flush like he did to her (how many times _tonight_ had his wicked words undid her? Sent a flurry of fantasies through her head?). But Sansa didn’t have the experience or skill to play Petyr at his own game. So, innocence, then. She was innocent and inexperienced, and all of that turned Petyr on. So she would amplify it until his own heart skipped beats and his cock strained under the pressure of not being able to sink inside of her.

           Sansa listened to her heavy heart. Trailed her tongue lazily over her bottom lip as she watched her uncle struggle with the same doubts and fears and desires that threatened to drown her.

           Finally, Petyr leant in, the scent of his cologne and the ever-present mint lingering between the heaviness of her desire on his lips. Sansa thought she knew what to expect: a lewd comment about how wonderful it would be to finally take her. Or, an offer to show her a new position, a new trick with the toy. Or, a plea to push back that boundary of _No Touching_ until there was a gossamer thread between that and _Touching_. Anything wicked, really.

           Softy, gently, tenderly: a kiss to her cheek. “Good night, sweetling.”

           Sansa stared at him, hand hovering over where she could still feel the ghost of his mouth. Petyr didn’t turn back to look at her as he left, leaving the door open behind him. A flash of light before his own bedroom door closed with a quiet _clack_.

           It was a kiss. Just a kiss.

           Something relatives gave each other. Something that Sansa would have given Petyr had they met under different circumstances: had her parents still been alive, and she and her siblings came to visit Petyr (and Lysa) for a short jaunt in King’s Landing. Sansa would have reluctantly given her aunt a kiss with the fakest smile plastered onto her face (and ignoring that gaudy ring, and the heavy layers of her perfume, or the fact that her thick makeup would have stuck to her lips). And the same to Petyr, fake smiles and promises to visit again. Something so innocent. Hells, Sansa pulled the same thing only _yesterday_ under the ruse of sharing a blanket.

           But _this_ was...wrong. She didn’t have a word for it other than that. Wrong. Inappropriate. Impossible. Made all that wronger by the fact that Sansa had the taste of his come in her mouth, and he hers. And that she sat naked on her bed, evidence of his wicked machinations between her legs. The dildo set aside be her thighs, the head glistening.

           She realized seconds (or minutes?) had passed, and she was still staring at the darkness of the hall where Petyr had left. Her skin was damp with sweat and come, her tongue tasted like their need, her fingers tickled with the ghost of his own tongue lapping around them.

           And her cheek still burned with his kiss.

* * *

           Sansa stood on the platform watching the flashing lights of the train pulling out of the station. Rain pattered lightly on her umbrella, catching the tips of her boots. Standing with her, waiting, was a sturdy army of squat trees. Their dropping green leaves swayed this way and that against the wind and rain.

           They reminded her of home. _This_ home, at least, one she built for herself after being tossed aside. It helped tremendously that the Tyrells were warm and kind and wanted her. What of the family that took in Arya? How bad had they been to have her run away at the first opportunity? Sansa thought she could contact her sister (her true sister. Not devaluing the bond she'd made with Margaery over the years, but there was something deeper to be had with siblings growing up that gets lost when older). Only, she didn’t know _how_. Last she knew, Arya had been set up in Acorn Hall. But the Smallwoods had no idea where she ran off to, and why.

           Lysa made it so easy to hate her: she took away their phones and did the bare minimum before splitting them apart. Sansa wondered – time and again – _why_ her aunt had been so deliberate on getting rid of them at the first chance.

           Sansa wondered – time and again – if she was making the _wrong choice_ . If doing all of those things with Petyr (even the less improper things) was going to hurt her when she had to say goodbye. Because without Petyr (and that gaudy ring), Lysa would have _huffed_ and dealt with her sister’s children. Terrible, but together.

            _I want to find them_. Sansa had no intentions of going to university yet. She wanted to, needed to, at some point. To make her way in the world and repay her new family for their time and love – at least, repay them in a way that wasn't her own love (or her family’s estates. Robb panicked when their parents died, joining the military with help of Jon. Even though Robb had been just shy of eighteen. And now, with him gone, Sansa was the oldest). Arya and Bran and Rickon, out there somewhere, alone. And Sansa's husband could help with it.

           A ghost kissed her spine. _Her husband._ Gods, it was _so soon_. She worked that invisible ring around her finger, wondering how heavy it would sit there. Forever announcing to the world that she was taken. That she wasn’t a naive child anymore.

           The only consolation was Willas promised her ring would be small, delicate. Not ever a gaudy thing like her aunt’s.

           A rapid _honhonhonkkkkk_ stole Sansa’s attention. The car pulling into the station narrowly missed a pair of walking umbrellas, whose curses were lost in the rumble of tires over the wet asphalt. Margaery pulled up beside her, careful of the puddles, reaching over the passenger seat to unlock the door.

           “Sorry about the rain!” Margaery said by way of hello, fiddling with the dials until Sansa felt her toes start to warm. She stretched them inside her boots, wishing she’d worn another pair of socks.

           “It's alright.” Sansa closed her umbrella and tossed it in the back seat. It wasn't nearly as fine a car as Petyr's, but it was far from a piece of junk. It had been Loras' before he moved in with his boyfriend. They preferred public transportation to _save the environment_ and all that. Which worked fine for Margaery – free car.

           It took several minutes to make the loop back out onto the street, Margaery doing much better this time avoiding people. The train station was just outside of the city, surrounded by endless green that sometimes threatened to swallow the roads meandering through them. They were slick, but Margaery was good enough behind the wheel. Only once Margaery took a turn too fast and they spun around, landing in the shoulder and staring at the cars driving towards them. Remembering that, Margaery let up on the gas a bit when she realized how fast they were going.

           It took no time at all before the comforting (and only sometimes confining) shapes of Highgarden peeked through the trees, before the green faded into the background. The buildings were by-and-large off-white, specks of color on their roofs, and endless colors surrounding their bases. Even from here, Sansa could make out the gardens that occupied the city. Vines wrapped around the tallest building, climbing higher and higher with each passing day.

           The streets narrowed the further into the center of town they got. Sansa missed how clean the city was, and how trees stood side-by-side with the buildings and street lights. They were citizens of the town, too.

           The streets of the Promenade were narrower, such that everyone was forced to park outside and walk through the rows of shops – some _way_ too expensive for either of them, but it was fun pretending they had thousands of dollars to throwaway on purses and shoes and dresses. As long as it wasn’t busy, the store attendants didn’t so much mind. Some were thankful they didn’t have to plaster a smile and try to convince them to spend too much money.

           Good thing it was a workday. Margaery had the pick of the spots, parking just outside a frozen yogurt place they frequented often on their way home from school during holidays. Or during the summers, which would have been unbearable save for the abundance of trees lining streets and breezes that meandered between buildings. Sansa couldn’t help but think how much worse summers would be in King’s Landing. Without trees, and without that stench...

           Margaery linked her arm in Sansa’s, catching her off guard. Their umbrellas layered one on top of the other above them as they walked towards the shops. “Girllllll, I'm so excited to show you everything!” She squeezed Sansa's arm. “And you better say you like it all, or I'm getting Will to divorce you.”

           Sansa laughed, hiding her unease. She supposed she always had a sliver of it, had always known that _this_ wasn’t an ideal situation. But it was much better than it could be. “But if we divorce, then I won’t have to deal with you anymore?”

           “Don’t even. You _know_ you’d miss me.”

           “Would I?”

           Margaery looked fake-offended, clutching her heart. Sansa _did_ laugh at that.

           They took their time looking through the shops’ windows. Last time they were here, the displays were heavy in winter fashions and trimmed with fake snow (it never snowed this far south, but it could get icy). Now, spring was starting to filter in between all the winter, despite being a month away. Margaery pointed out a flowy forest-green dress that she was _dying_ to get, at least once she had hundreds of dollars to throw away on that instead of her university books. She envied Sansa choice not to go to school, even if Sansa was envious of Margaery to have the luxury of not being married at eighteen.

           Few people crowded the streets. They waved _good morning_ as they passed each other. That was another thing Sansa missed: no one in King’s Landing was _friendly_. They would rather pretend she didn’t exist than to spend a second smiling and wishing her good day.

           That was another strike against staying in King’s Landing. She wished she had better, more concrete things than that.

            _What about your uncle?_

           Sansa shook her head. “Did you have plans for lunch?” Sansa said, eyeing the second-level restaurants. It was too early for most (especially the fancy ones), but Sansa hadn’t eaten since last night. She’d been too shocked when she woke up that morning to eat: the layer of sweat and desire sticking to her skin, the forgotten dildo lying between her sheets, the smell of Petyr, the kiss. Her body moved mechanically, and had gotten as far as peeling a banana open before heat flooded her. She tossed it in the fridge. “I was thinking Bertha’s? Something nice and warm.”

           “Oh.” Margaery scrunched up her face. Sansa feared she said something wrong? “Actually, I _kind_ of have plans. For–" she fished for her phone– “right now, actually.” They made a sharp u-turn, heading towards an offshoot street that was still technically part of the Promenade. Less people loitered around here.

           “That’s fine,” Sansa said. She tried not to think about the bread-bowl soup she’d been craving. It was perfect for rainy days, and no one made them better than the chefs at Bertha’s.

           “Next time, I promise!” Margaery said by way of knowing exactly what Sansa was craving. “But we gotta do the wedding things first! And then we can finish doing all the fun stuff.”

           The wedding.

           Another thing Sansa knew she’d been actively trying to forget about. The wedding, her husband, her future with a man other than the one who had seen her naked last night.

           “Is it… It’s going to be a _small_ wedding, right?” Sansa knew a lot of the details hadn’t been ironed out yet, and Margaery was too happy to take on the task of most of the planning work. Which was good. The idea of planning her own wedding had her stomach twisted in knots.

           Margaery tilted her head back and forth, neither a yes or a no. “I suppose. Besides, we’d need a _lot_ of money if we want to throw you the most lavish wedding this side of the Narrow Sea! One fit for someone as _ah-may-zing_ as you.”

           Sansa felt her stomach tighten. A huge wedding might have been something she dreamed of when she was younger – halls crowded with singing and dancing and laughing, flowers hung on the walls, her and her husband lost in the happiness of each other that the hall might as well have been empty save for the two of them. Now, Sansa would have been fine with going to the city and getting ordained there, just her and Willas and Margaery. Round and round that invisible ring spun. “I’d rather not it be a big wedding.”

           “Not now, at least.”

           Sansa entertained her friend’s idea. “Besides, where would all that money come from?”

           Margaery _tsk_ ed. “You’re too practical sometimes, Sans. But who knows. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find a couple million lying on the floor somewhere.”

           Sansa balked at that. “A coupe m-million?” She didn’t even feasibly know how much that was. “Who has that sort of money to throw around for a wedding?” A thousand for a dress was one thing, but Margaery’s fantasy was too much.

           She shrugged. “Maybe it’s not just a wedding? Maybe you’re celebrating, too.”

           “Celebrating what?”

           “Oh look, the cakes!”

           Sansa stared at the display of cakes and pastries sitting in the window. All heavenly decadent she could already taste their sweetness. Macarons piled and twisted into a tower, each one a different color. Slices of all sorts of cakes: triple chocolate with abstract shards lining the thick frosting, and fluffy sponges layered between bright fruits. Multi-colored pinwheels and chocolate-covered strawberries and bite-sized tarts. Sansa managed to tear her eyes away from the window, finding her friend smiling evilly. If there was one thing that made Sansa weak, it was sweets.

           “Please don’t tell me you bought some big fancy cake?”

           Margaery closed her umbrella beneath the canopy, fluffing out her scarf. “Gods no. If we’re trying to be _subtle_ , that’s not really how to do it. But Grandma is friends with the owner, so we got a good discount. Not to mention if I know you, you’d get a towering wedding cake that’s all lemon flavored.

           Sansa pursed her lips. “But lemons are _so good_.”

           Margaery laughed. “You’re so predictable.”

           The door made a light _jingaling_ as they entered. Sweet smells overtook Sansa, filling her with such warmth and joy that she wondered if heaven was a sunlit bakery in the middle of a city filled with swaying trees and splashes of color. It must have been. Her mouth was watering even more. She looked at each dessert in the display case. They looked better than the ones in the window. It would be impossible to pick just one.

           “Ah, Tyrell?” the lady behind the counter said, flipping through an order book. The corners were marred with frosting. “Here to confirm your order? Graduation, right?”

           “Yup!”

           Graduation? That finally brought Sansa out of her sweets-daydream. She gazed at Margaery as she went over the order of cakes. Only, it made sense. She must know what she was doing if Margaery was going through the ruse that they were holding a graduation party this weekend. That, and there must definitely be some sort of taboo against working for a wedding for someone underage (even if technically Sansa would be old enough when she was getting married. Technically).

           “Alright. And before final payment you wanted to do a final taste test?”

           Margaery nodded. “Yup. Me and my sister want to make sure our Grandma ordered the good stuff for us.”

           “Of course. The other in your party arrived already, said to wait for you. If you’ll follow me right this way, please.”

           Sansa snapped away from a tantalizing fruit cake with candied sugar shards, staring at Margaery in confusion. Her friend meanwhile gave her a wink and followed the attendant into the back. _Oh no_. Sansa reluctantly followed.

           Sure enough, he was there. Willas waved as they entered a small balcony jutting out of the back of the bakery. In the distance was a splattering of colors: reds and oranges and whites, the few flowers that survived winters and would continue to thrive long into spring. The sky was still grey. They sat far enough away from the edge to avoid getting rained on.

           “How are you?” her fiance asked, reaching over to pull out her chair. His wheelchair was positioned in the center of the table, and Sansa sat to his left whilst Margaery pulled out her own chair on his right.

           “I’m… Fine. I didn’t expect to see you here.” _I didn’t expect to face you until our wedding_. Sansa shot a look at Margaery, who was pretending to ignore her on her phone.

           Willas looked over at his sister. “Always setting people up, aren’t you Marge?”

           Margaery pretended not to hear, but she smiled.

           “Anyways,” he said, turning back to look at Sansa. There were bags beneath his eyes, and his hair looked like he hadn’t had enough time to slide a brush through it. Specks of rain stuck to his glasses. “How have you been?”

           It was so banal a question, but Sansa was glad of it all the same. Much better than asking if she’d been _faithful_ , or if she’d got a good night’s sleep last night. “I’m alright. Just a little...surprised that it’s all happening so soon.”

           He smiled at her. “I know, me too.”

            _Are you happy?_ Sansa teased the question in her mouth; it taste bitter. Did she want to know the truth of her fiance’s thoughts? Did she want to know if he wanted this, if he would rather have someone his own age or profession, and not a _child_? Did he even like Sansa?

           Thankfully, manners took her down a different route. “How have you been? Oh, wait you asked that already. Sorry.”

           He let loose a light chuckle. “It’s alright. I know, I’m feeling the same.”

           Sansa desperately wanted Willas to elaborate on that, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Especially not if he would turn the question on her. How tight-lipped could she keep her own secrets?

           “So, a graduation then?” Willas said to neither of them, finding his place-setting in need of reorganizing. From their shape, Sansa knew he’d moved them at least twenty times before they showed up.

           Margaery set her phone down. “Of course. I mean, we can't really say that it’s a, you know.”

           “Then technically we’re lying,” Willas piped up. “But technically, not. You two _did_ graduate high school after all.”

           “True. And it's _waaaaaay_ cheaper than a cake. At least for this wedding.”

            _This_ wedding _?_

           The attendant came back just then with a loaded plate of small, bite-sized cakes. There were three of each flavor. A bright yellow with a slightly paler shade of frosting. A layered white– and chocolate– cake with dark red ganache in between, a single raspberry on the end. And a carrot cake with a thick layer of cream-cheese frosting piped in little stars.

           Sansa immediately went for the lemon one. It tasted _divine,_ melting on her tongue and leaving a pleasant sweet/sour on her tongue. The others laughed at her predictability, even though they were quick to admit that the lemon _was_ good (“I told you so,” Sansa said, sticking her tongue out at her friend).

           “How’s work going, Willy-o?”

           WIllas almost snorted out frosting. “That’s the worst nickname you’ve got for me yet.”

           “Is it?” Margaery bit the tines of her fork, smiling devilishly.

           “Don’t. Even.” He gave Sansa a _Why do we put up with this loser_ look, and Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. Even if it made her wish she had her own siblings to joke around with, too.

           “But it’s...going,” Willas said, answering his sister. “Busy of course. Still learning all of the ins and outs. And my boss, gods, she’s been on my ass ever since I asked for her help. But I mean, it’s going. It’ll be worth it in the end.” He turned to give Sansa a smile.

           “That why you look like you haven’t slept in weeks?” Margaery leaned in and sniffed. “Or showered?”

           “I _have_ showered.”

           “But you haven’t slept?”

           Willas sighed. Sansa thought back to her own siblings: the petty arguments like this she and Arya would get into. The _who shot first_ on mornings after it snowed, resulting in a bloodbath of snow.

           Sansa scraped up a trail of chocolate frosting with her finger. It was a hair’s breadth from her lips before she wiped it off on her napkin. It was _shame_ that now coursed her. Shame that she had done terrible things with another man, and was now sitting here beside her fiance. She squeezed her legs tight beneath the table, thankful for the cooling rain behind her. How flushed were her cheeks?

           Thankfully, they were too busy bickering to notice. Sansa looked at her future husband as he rolled his eyes at something Margaery said. “I'm sorry, but, um. Aren't you supposed to be at work right now?”

           “ _Supposed_ to be doing a lot of things,” Margaery butted in before her brother could answer. She leaned her head on a hand, nibbling on the raspberry. “Not like he has big important things to do. Or the fact that his boss will have his ass over her mantel when she finds out he’s meeting with his _fiancee_.”

           “Marge.”

           Margaery pouted her lips. “Oh fine.”

           Willas turned back to Sansa with a smile. He reached over the table to grab her hand. It was soft, warm. A bit of frosting was stuck to his knuckle, and Sansa wasn't sure about the urge to wipe it off and lick it. Should she? That's something she imagined couples did. She’d seen it often enough in movies: one person has a bit of sugar or something on their cheek, and the other plucks it off with either their fingers or with a kiss. So cheesy. Sansa wouldn’t admit how cute she found it, especially when the first person lost their train of thought.

           She didn't do anything in the end, if only because she was met in her mind with a wicked smile and a lilting _We can’t touch_ . Gods, she knew exactly where things would have led had it been another man sitting beside her, holding her. His smile would have been far, far different. Willas stroked her hand with a thumb. “Don’t worry, being here won’t _actually_ get me in trouble. Besides, I’m on my lunch break. And my boss isn’t _that_ much of a witch, not matter what Marge might say.” The girl in question _harrumphed_ as if to say she knew better than her brother.

           Sansa couldn’t help but stare at their joined hands. Her fiance never touched her for so long. So intimately. It felt like the kiss Petyr gave her last night: sweet, and loving, and wrong. Sansa wondered what brought about Willas’ sudden love for her. “And this big job of yours?”

           Willas tilted his head this way and that, the exact way Margaery had done earlier. “It's no big deal. Just a lot of work. But I promise I'll tell you all about it. Soon.”

            _And soon, we’ll be married. Irrevocably entwined together._

           There, on his ring finger, was the invisible band Sansa would place on it in a week’s time.

           When they'd finished, Margaery went to go make final confirmation for the cakes. Sansa made small talk about what she'd been doing in King’s Landing, how it was compared to Highgarden (though Willas made note that he'd been there before, a while ago, and was going to go again soon). She admitted it was pretty if you don’t look at it too closely (carefully avoiding some of the less kind sights she’d seen – some in plain daylight!). Being right next to the water was nice. Sansa said she’d like to go visit again when it was warmer, and Willas promised to take her.

           The truth of the rest of her time spent in the city caught in her throat. Margaery claimed that Willas wouldn't care, but Sansa couldn't bring herself to say any of it. No sensible fiance would react calmly to the fact that Sansa had been seeing someone (two someones! If her brief stint with Harry was anything). And no sensible human being would be calm at the idea of Sansa doing wicked things with a man twice her age.

           Not to mention the fact that only twelve hours ago she’d instead had Petyr’s come coating her tongue instead of lemon and chocolate.

           Margaery returned, tucking the receipt into her purse. They walked Willas to the bus stop, waved goodbye as the lift raised him aboard.

           “He’s excited, you know.”

           Sansa felt the ghost of his thumb brushing the back of her hand. It tickled. “How are you sure about that?”

           “Uh, because you’re _amazing_?” Margaery counted off on her fingers. “You’re pretty, almost as pretty as me. You’re smart. You’ve managed to learn your manners instead of ditching etiquette classes like some people. Honestly, girl, I don’t know how many times I gotta say it before you believe me.”

            _A few more times, at least_. “You’re just being a kiss-ass right now.”

           “Yeah, so? Otherwise I won’t be able to eat those delicious cakes.”

           They walked through the streets towards their next destination. Margaery listed off all of the things that they had to do today, and Sansa wished she was anywhere but here. She didn’t know why. Willas was nice, and kind, and if today was any indicator, he would have been everything that Sansa needed. Smart and loving and gentle. Older than fifteen-year-old Sansa would have pictured, but handsome all the same.

           She wished she never went to King’s Landing.

           It was all legal things she either couldn’t understand, or people didn’t bother telling her. _Why_ couldn’t she have just stayed here in Highgarden if it was for only two weeks? Maybe in that time, she would have grown closer to Willas, and wouldn’t have anyone else to compare him to.

           Sansa inhaled sharply. Margaery stared at her, confused. “Sorry, I… It’s nothing.”

           “Girl, you’re just nervous. I know. But it’s going to be fine. More than fine.”

           They checked in with the flowers next. Margaery confirmed with the clerk the order and the shipping, like she had with the cakes. They couldn’t get roses because that wasn’t something normal for a graduation party (were flowers normal for graduations anyways? Sansa wasn’t sure. Maybe in Highgarden, since there were flowers at every corner inside and out). They were to have geraniums in every color imaginable (at least, in their budget), and a small bouquet of white roses that Margaery said was to be split for the table decorations. Sansa could already feel their thorn pricking her skin.

           There were other flowers, too, but Sansa didn’t catch them.

           The rain let up as they meandered back into the streets. Margaery insisted that they would eat after all of their chores, promising that soup, but Sansa didn’t feel up to eating anything else. The cakes started to sour in her stomach.

           She nearly turned around and walked back into the streets as they entered the next store. The rings smacked Sansa in the face of _this is happening_. She’d used to love browsing them, trying them on as if she had the money for it. And not just rings: the necklaces and earrings and bracelets, all the kinds she remembered her mom used to wear. Cat had too many given as gifts from her husband and children (which were picked out and wrapped by Ned anyways). Legally, they belonged to Sansa. Including her mother’s wedding ring.

           “Close your eyes. Or just turn around.”

           Sansa clutched the small bag in her hand. Margaery twirled her finger, waiting for Sansa to do the same. When she didn’t, Margaery elaborated, “I need to pick up, well, Willas’.”

            _My wedding ring._

           Sansa had tried to ask for her mother’s, but they insisted that _for now_ a new one would be best. To symbolize the new family she made, and the new bond here in Highgarden.

           She wondered at the eagerness of her new family to don her Sansa Tyrell.

           There were only a few more stops to make, none as claustrophobic as the rings. Sansa could pretend like the one she picked out for her husband wasn’t sitting heavily in her purse.

           For a few minutes, the sun peeked out between the grey. It set the town glimmering. The flowers looked happier in the sun, too. And just like that, the clouds closed again, still grey and growing darker.

           “Whatever happened to that guy you kissed?”

           Greying curls and mossy eyes flashed in Sansa's head. The soft press of his lips – and the lingering scent of mint – against her cheek. Sansa blinked it away, trying to remember what color Harry's eyes had been. Blue, she thought. His hair was ruffled, a sandy brown. And there were dimples in his cheeks whenever he smiled. _Of_ _course_ Margaery wasn't talking about Petyr. Of course Sansa wouldn't harbor anything but a deep-seated hatred for the uncle who's lavish attention separated Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon. Of course.

           She wondered why Margaery never asked about Petyr.

           “I thought I already told you about Harry,” Sansa said, leaping over a puddle onto the sidewalk. King's Landing made her wary of anything lying in the streets.

           “ _Yeahhhh_ ,” her friend drawled, linking their arms again. This time, she pressed closer into Sansa. “But I'm a sucker for gossip. You should know that by now.” They turned down a street, still deep in the Promenade. “Was he anything like that boy last semester? Oh, what was his name…”

           Sansa tried not to think of boys (or men). Besides, there weren’t many in her life when it came to showing romantic (or not-so-romantic) interest in her. “Which one?”

           “Greg!” Margaery snapped her fingers. “Wait, no, that wasn’t it. But it was _like_ Greg?”

           Nothing came to mind at his name. Margaery might have just gone out of her mind for a second. “What’s so important about Greg?”

           “No, that’s not it. Anyways. Do you remember that guy who was trying to talk to you last semester? Might have been at Winter Formal. And he was all sweet and stuff until I said you already had a boyfriend?”

           Sansa tried to think who her friend was talking about, but all the faces blurred into Harry. And she was sure she would have remembered if it was Harry who had been bugging her during school. “Not...really… Why does it matter?

           Margaery shrugged her shoulders. “Eh, no reason. I’m just trying to get a feel for what your guy was like. If I had to picture Henry–"

           “Harry.”

           "–yeah, I’d go with him. _That_ guy totally would have freaked if you said you’re on your period.”

           “He only wanted to, you know, _do_ things. It’s bad enough that he had his hand under my–" Sansa clapped hers over her mouth.

           “Girl!”

           Sansa bit her lip. _Crap_. She didn’t mean to let anything uncouth slip, whether it was between her and the boy or her and her uncle. But like a vulture, Margaery wasn’t going to let this go.

           “You can tell me _anything_. I promise I won’t tell Will if you don’t want me to.” To emphasize, she zipped her mouth shut. Though it didn’t stay shut, a smile poking through.

           Tell her what? Of the men who wanted Sansa because she was pretty? One of them was already back at university, and the other...well, Sansa had no plans to tell Petyr about Willas anyways. She _knew_ exactly how Petyr would respond to the news of Sansa’s hand having belonged to another long before she stepped into his apartments.

           Not to mention the jealousy at Harry having stolen a kiss.

           “Well…” she began, lowering her hand from her mouth. Damn that, it was proof of _something_ having happened.

           Soft and gentle. A burning peck on her cheek, hotter than all of the desire that coursed through her. “He kissed me.”

           Margaery huffed. “Girl. I swear to my gods and yours, you’re trying me right now. If there are things you aren’t telling me…”

           Sansa didn’t know how much she _should_ say. She could go with the truth: that Harry _did_ lay his hand on her thigh while they ate, and _did_ want to do so much more that night. So, Sansa did it – told her friend the _truth_ of the night (save for the other couple that sat tables away, and the man who doubtless was wishing he was in Harry’s place).

           “And…?”

           “And…” Sansa looked away, hating herself for letting this slip. “And, nothing happened. ‘Cause, you know, he was grossed out. But he told me the things he wanted to do. Like, um, go back to his place and Netflix and chill, or suck him off, or you know, _do it_ …”

           Margaery frowned in disgust. “Ew, doing it on the first date? What a total _sleaze_.”

           It was her mind come to life, that single sentence. Sansa’s knew exactly the depravity of her uncle, and still – _still!_ – she went through with it.

           They continued walking in silence. Or rather, Margaery was chattering about this and that, and Sansa was trying to keep up with the “Oh”, “What happened?”, “Really?”. It wasn’t a coincidence that Sansa accidentally revealed all of the things that Petyr and her _had_ done. Or – in terms of _doing it_ – had thought about. Petyr never took her out on a first date, so did that really count?

           Sansa laughed at herself. Debating the morality of her uncle.

           To say that he even had any.

           “We’re here. Last stop of the day.” Margaery said, reaching her hand out for Sansa’s. Her fingers wiggled in the space between them.

           It was a dream, a flurry of movements that felt like an age and a blink of an eye. Hands were on Sansa, tugging fabric down her waist and over her arms. Someone pinned her hair up, a cool breeze tickling her naked neck. They told her to turn one way, the other, spin around, and she did.

           “Perfect. Have a look, miss.”

           Sansa stared at herself in the triple full-length mirror. It was _just_ gaudy enough, _just_ austere enough, _just_ young enough – a perfect combination of what Sansa remembered of her mother’s, and of what she and Margaery had giggled about whilst walking through the Promenade months before the plan was set. To think Sansa would be standing here, a few years later, with all intention of getting married.

           The other girl squealed when she entered the room. Sansa turned, careful of the material wrapped around her legs. She couldn’t see the podium she stood on, suddenly feeling dizzy from the height. At least, that’s what she assumed the nerves were from.

           Not from the giddy way Margaery looked at her, hands clasped, grin impossibly wide. “Oh, Sans, you’re so _beautiful_ ! I _knew_ the dress would look great on you!”

           Sansa threaded her fingers through the silk and lace, admiring the feel of it against her bare skin. Margaery _did_ have good taste, wonderful taste.

           A wedding dress.

           Sansa looked back at herself in the mirror. The top was lacy, diving up from a V just beneath her breasts up and over her shoulders (it wasn’t a _slutty_ V, as Margaery put it). The lace continued down her arms, stopping just beneath her wrists. From her waist it transformed into a heavier white, pooling at her feet. Stark white flowers coiled on vines played over all the lace, dancing down her arms, and even getting lost in the folds of the skirts.

           Sansa couldn’t deny she felt like a princess.

           The two attendants circled her, muttering about minor alterations that needed doing before they gave her the gown. Margaery had Sansa try out some out months ago, back when the marriage had seemed more like a wistful fantasy and not a shocking reality. There wasn’t one that Sansa liked best. The neckline of this one, the lacy flowers of that, the swooping trail of that other one. Margaery outdid herself, combining all of the parts that Sansa liked and managing to convey it to the attendants without spoiling a thing to Sansa.

           She wondered how Margaery managed to bribe the dressmakers to finish it so quickly, and without Sansa there. She’d thought it perfect when she tried it on, but as they went about pining the hem here and pulling on the neck there, it went from gorgeous to stunning.

           Her friend said as much, barely containing her glee as she watched the women circle Sansa. Sansa looked at her through the mirror. Margaery gave her a wink. _Don’t forget_ , she seemed to say.

           Don’t forget that this is all a lie.

           It always helped that with a bit of makeup and the right shoes, Sansa could pass for someone well into university, or even older. Exhibit A: Harry not balking at her lie of being in university. Exhibit B: Petyr forgetting himself (willfully or not) as he pulled back from diving into her. Exhibit C: this, the dressmakers speaking common platitudes of Sansa going to be a gorgeous wife, even if she was getting married just out of university.

           Of course, neither of them told the truth to the dressmakers. The same _what if they’re against sending girls off to get married the moment she’s eighteen_ . Even though the women here were equally known for their discreteness as they were for their tailoring. Not to mention the _cost_ itself of the work (Sansa couldn’t dare ask). Olenna joked that it was in payment for putting up with Margaery for years. Regardless, Sansa felt obligated to pay the Tyrells back for all of it: the wedding and the dress, yes, but also for taking care of Sansa when her own family didn’t want her. It was a _pity_ thank you (though she was loathe to admit it more and more the closer to the wedding it got).

           One dressmaker left to get more pins, the other holding the pieces of the back shut. Sansa felt the woman’s warm knuckles rap against her shoulder blade.

           Sansa twisted her hips one way, the other, small enough movements that the woman wouldn’t scold her for it. The fabric swishing along her feet. “Does… Does it have pockets?”

           Margaery tilted her head, giving Sansa a half-smile. The dressmaker was probably doing the same. “Pockets? For what? Girl, it's a _wedding dress_. Unless you want to shove in some ‘em full of extra cake for after the ceremony.”

           Sansa took in a deep breath, tried to pass through a laugh (but even to her, it sounded fake). Was the dress getting tighter? She suddenly felt breathless. “I know I'm just. I’m just nervous.”

           Her friend walked around the podium, collecting Sansa’s hands in hers. They were soft, and likely left traces of the rose lotion she so loved (and bought in _bundles_ whenever there was the four for three sale. Honestly, no sane person needed that much lotion). Margaery coerced Sansa’s gaze down to hers. A smile sat on her lips, soft crinkles at the corners of her eyes that tilted her winged mascara. “Girl. Listen. I can only _imagine_ how nervous you are. But I _promise_ you, everything is going to be fine. The wedding is going to be spectacular, you’re going to be _gorgeous_. You already are. And! I bet you will look back on it as the best day of your life. Okay?”

           It helped. But, it didn’t. “Okay.”

           If anything, the butterflies in her stomach just flew around in a different pattern, tickling every bone and muscle with their wings of fear and uncertainty.

           The other woman came back with a pillow full of pins. One of them accidentally pricked Sansa’s back. They stood back, debating whether that extra inch made the look complete.

           “Can you give us a second?” Margaery’s smile was sickly sweet.

           The dressmakers pursed their lips, but nodded, continuing to mutter to themselves as they went to the back. Something about _what if we moved the neck higher_ and the like. No mention of _she looks too young to be married, don’t you think?_

           “Girl, what’s wrong?”

           “It’s…”

            _Use your words_.

           Gods, she hated that here, in a moment so personal and open, she was thinking of him. Not to mention she remembered a horrid idea that passed through her head a week ago. That she _knew_ someone in particular would love to see her in a wedding dress; but, only if he was the one to meet her at the altar.

           His motives were wicked, but right now his words were true. “I’m kind of scared.”

           Margaery feigned shock (or, that’s what Sansa thought it was). “About what?”

           She waved her arms (her hands were still pinned between Margaery’s). “Just...everything. I don’t know if I’ll be a good wife. And I _am_ kind of young for marriage? Not to mention I don’t really know Willas as well as like you do, even if you are brother sister. And who’s to say he’ll love me? Truly? That he won’t look back and regret _me_ and–"

           “Look.” Margaery held both of Sansa's arms until Sansa calmed down her babbling. She bit her lip, trying not to let the tears ruin her makeup. Gods, she shouldn’t have let any of that out. She should have smiled and said _Nothing’s wrong_ and been the dutiful fiancee they expected her to be.

           Gently, Margaery ran her hands down the length of Sansa’s arms, careful of the pins at the wrist, until she laced their fingers together. The warmth was comforting, Sansa admitted. But having a breakdown in front of her best friend and future sister-in-law? Not comforting in the slightest. “I can’t really imagine how nervous you are right now. But Willas is a good man. And you’re a wonderful friend. I honestly couldn’t imagine anyone better to join our family. Even if you end up eating all of our lemons.”

           Sansa tried to fight against a smile, but lost.

           “Sunday will be here and gone before you know it. It’s just going to be a small thing. With delicious cakes and a gorgeous couple. And then,” Margaery squeezed her hands. “Maybe in a few months or a year, when people see you two really do love each other and you can't imagine being with anyone else. _Then_ we'll do the stuffy wedding with all the old folks. Okay?”

           Sansa sniffled. “Okay…”

           “Unfortunately, Grandmother will want to be at both. So you’ll have to suffer with _one_ cranky old lady Sunday, at least.”

           Sansa laughed at that.

           Margaery smiled up at her. “Do you feel better?”

           Sansa took in a deep breath. Another, another, until they didn’t break. “A bit, yeah. Thanks.”

           “Anytime.” Margaery smiled, squeezing her hands one last time before letting go. “Oh, hey girl, watch my purse? I need to go to the bathroom real quick, and then we can have them take you out of the dress.” Margaery said the last bit with a wink, as if to imply that Sansa just needed to stare at herself in the mirror for a little while. Let the weight of what she was going to do – in six days! – settle the butterflies in her stomach.

           Honestly, she wasn’t sure if these butterflies were as wild as the ones when she braved the elevator to Petyr’s work and gave him a show.

           “Yeah, sure,” she said, carefully wiping the tears from her eyes and watching Margaery leave. Thankfully, there weren’t black spots on her fingers.

           The attendants came back for a minute, remeasuring the hem and deciding on taking the pin in the back out. They talked to each other, debating whether to round to the nearest quarter inch or half inch, ignoring Sansa as she stood there. Which was fine by her; had she opened her mouth, she might reveal even more doubts about the wedding and the dress.

           “Hold this for a second.” The taller of the ladies had Sansa hold a bouquet of flowers. The two of them stood back, gazing Sansa up and down, muttering about the sleeves and hem. Sansa knew she had grown a little since the last time she tried on dresses. And even then, the wedding seemed like a thing of her imagination. She wondered if it was because she never had the experience leading up to it: dates and cutesy things, hugs and kisses, and...all of the things Petyr showed her. It never felt real because it never added up to the romances she read and watched. It never felt real until now.

           “Thank you.” The lady took back the flowers. “Your sister is handling the payment, correct?”

           Sansa nodded, afraid of her voice.

           “Great. We’ll go talk with her for a second, make sure everything is in order. If you don’t mind waiting a little while and then we can help take you out.”

           “That’s fine.” Even though it wasn’t. Margaery’s words helped, but Sansa desperately wanted to go outside and breathe in fresh air. She thought she was suffocating.

           She twirled back so she was facing the mirrors. Right in front of her was a woman about to marry the love of her life. Too bad it wasn’t the same child that was standing there in the dress with doubts weighing her down.

           In the right mirror, Sansa could see passersby walking the streets, umbrellas in hand and heads tilted down. It was hardly _rain_ , not at all like the frigid storms that would hound Winterfell.  Bran used to love the rain, said it made climbing an actual challenge. Rickon would try (and fail) to follow along. He had more bruises and scrapes than Bran did. Arya tried a few times, but she gave up after spraining her wrist.

           Still, the rain here was much better than back in King’s Landing. _That_ rain was just plain _gross_. She tried not to think about what filth got cycled back into the clouds, and was glad to be in Highgarden instead. Among the trees and flowers, with her new family and all of the emotions it brought – even if so many of them now were drowning.

           And in that mirror, someone was staring through the bridal shop window. At the wonderful dresses and the gossamer veils. And at her.

           She turned just as the little bell over the door chimed, silks spinning around her feet.

           “What the _fuck_ is this shit?”

           The dress felt tighter, tighter. The skirts, like snakes, twirled between her legs.

           He tucked his phone in his back pocket. His face was fuming beneath the rain that plastered darkened curls to his forehead.

           Sansa tried to step away, but the podium was too small and the dress too tangled around her to maneuver. Her heart beat franticly beneath the coil of fabric around her chest. “What are… What are _you_ doing here?”

           He strode towards her, one two three, until he was standing in front of her. He was tall, but not tall enough with her standing on it. Sansa glanced around: Margaery was still in the bathroom, and the dressmakers were elsewhere. She could scream? But he wouldn’t like that; Sansa knew enough about boys

           Harry grabbed a handful of the dress. “You’re fucking getting _married_?”

           Sansa opened her mouth-

           "–and you were just fucking _leading me on_?” He flung the fabric away. Swore when a pin nicked his finger. Clenched his fist, tight tight tight. Gods, if he was going to hurt her…

           “Look,” Sansa got out, trying to make sense of why he was here and why he was so furious. Sansa never returned his texts (that was true, and eventually he did catch on that she wasn’t interested. Or, so she assumed). Sansa _did_ promise him to meet up after her period, but that was plainly obvious a lie she couldn’t imagine Harry thinking it true. Sansa did lie about her age, and about where she would be going to school after the break.

           Oh.

           She had told him she was at university. He must have been here looking for her. Expecting to continue from their date. Persistent to have that night alone.

           And from the look of him, Harry wouldn’t stop until he _had_ her.

           Sansa backed as far away as she could on the podium. The balls of her feet kissed the edge. “I– I think you have me confused with someone else–"

           “The fuck you on?” She wasn't on anything, but from his swagger and the stench that emanated off his clothes, Harry wasn’t in his right state of mind.

           “Please. Just, go, I’m not–"

           “Oh, let me _guess_ .” Harry took a step back, arms wide. “You’re not like all the other girls that fuck on the first date. We’re in the fucking twenty-first century, bitch. If I take you out somewhere as nice as that, you _better_ at least blow me.”

           “Get out.”

           They both turned to see Margaery standing in the adjacent doorway. She feld a fire extinguisher in her hand, the nozzle aimed at him. Harry stared at her, squinting his eyes as if he couldn’t quite tell there was someone else in the room. “Who the fuck…”

           Margaery approached Sansa, but was still far enough away. Probably because she was bluffing. She looked at Sansa with a knowing look, and Sansa nodded. _Yes, this is the infamous Harry_ . _Though, he was a lot more charming when I met him_.

           “Listen. You better get out of here before you make a scene.”

           “The fuck you are? _I_ came here to get, well,” he trailed off, as though suddenly forgetting how to talk. “I expected something, and I’m here to get it. I don’t wanna wait _weeks_ or gods-damn _months_ until I can have her.”

           “So what?” Margaery lifted the nozzle higher, and the boy had the good sense to take a step back. “You think you deserve something after you bought a girl a nice dinner, and after you slipped your hand beneath her dress to cop a feel of her boobs? Get bent.”

           Sansa’s own words echoed in her head: _he had his hand under my–_

           Margaery wasn’t _lying_ when she accused someone of touching Sansa inappropriately. Unfortunately, the accusations fell on the wrong boy.

           “ _What_ !?” Harry jerked backwards like he'd been shot. His eyes – she once thought they were pretty – stared at her with such an intensity, Sansa worried the dress would catch fire with her tangled in it, so hot and bright not even that fire extinguisher could do anything. “I never even touched her! I mean, I kissed her, but that’s not even… I asked her out. I bought her dinner. And now I find out she _lied_ about being single. What, anything else you’re fucking lying about? God, I bet you lied about being on shark week, too?” His laugh was splintered. “Lemme guess, lemme guess. I got you all nice and ready, and instead of at least _thanking_ me, I dropped you back home to your _husband_ , and you let him fuck you? Even though _I_ took you out? Fuck you, bitch!”

           “ _Get out_!” Margaery was fuming. She was smaller and slighter than Harry, but there was no doubt the girl was seconds away from forgoing the extinguisher and pouncing his ass with her fists. “My brother’s a lawyer, and he can get send your ass to jail for touching a m– For threatening violence.”

           Harry looked between them, clenching his fists tighter. Somehow, that shut him up.

           He took a step towards Margaery.

           “Sir, we’ve called the authorities,” one of the dressmakers said. She was poking her head out from the doorway. In her white-knuckled hands was a clunky phone. She was smaller than either Sansa or Margaery, but her face was surprisingly calm. How often had she seen bouts of rage like this before? Likely often, to the point where Harry realizing Sansa was betrothed was hardly any news to her. She must have seen so much worse. “If you don’t leave now, you _will_ be arrested.”

           The world was miraculously kind then. Quiet sirens whistled through the streets beyond. Harry eventually heard them, brain too heavy with whatever alcohol or drugs. “You’re gonna fucking get yours, you fucking hoe.” He swore loudly and profusely at each of them, flipping them off before slamming the door shut behind him.

           Sansa crumbled on the podium and cried.

           Margaery was there, her hands warm. Waiting for Sansa to get all of the unspoken emotions and fear and dread out through her tears.

           “I don’t mean to be rude,” someone said, “but it would be best not to, um, do that in the dress.”

           With the help of the dressmakers and her friend, Sansa peeled the wedding dress off of her. It was like a second skin, one that left her standing there in her underwear bare and shivering. She clasped her hands on her shoulders – a sign of unease taken by the dressmaker that Sansa didn’t feel comfortable standing there nearly naked in front of a stranger. Only, that was far from it.

           They left with the dress in tow, mumbling about wrinkles.

           A long time passed until Sansa’s tears became quiet sobs. They were choking her. Margaery – her hands still comforting, rubbing warmth into her back – asked, “Are you okay?”

            _Am I?_

           Sansa shrugged, not sure what to say. She didn’t know _why_ Harry’s words hurt her so much. Maybe she thought she just wouldn’t have to see him again. Like her brief date was a thing of her imagination, and his kiss, and the feel of his fingers sliding up her thigh. It was something she could close her eyes and pretend it was over.

           Like what she knew she was doing with Petyr.

           No matter how tightly she could close her eyes, her clamp her hands over her ears, there was no denying _what_ she did. And with whom. And how many times.

           There was no denying that if Margaery or Willas or literally anyone knew of the truth, they would never look at Sansa the same way.

           They would never love her the same way.

           Margaery asked something, but Sansa’s heart was too loud to hear it. “Wh-what?”

           She looked up at Margaery, and her friend was chewing on her lip. Likely thinking about what Harry had said, too, and the way Sansa never denied the things that happened. Because, well, Harry wasn’t telling lies. Sansa _did_ let him touch her (nothing serious), and she _did_ let him drive her back home (not to her husband, but to Petyr), and she _did_ mean all of the things she had alluded to earlier.

           What if Margaery asked about the truth? The actual truth, not the one that Sansa pared down for her? Sansa thought she was too destroyed at the moment to lie. Because the lies were what was killing her, pulling her down into the deep, murky depths of darkness. And the lies had the unmistakable scent of mint.

           Margaery shook her head. “Are you...we can cancel, if you really want to.”

           Sansa stared in shock, mouth agape. That wasn’t at all what she was expecting her friend to say. “I…”

           “I can’t imagine everything you’re going through. With _this_ , and being so young, and, well, I guess me being pushy?” She let out loose a breathy laugh. “If you _really_ don’t want to get married now, I’m sure Willas will wait for you.” Margaery smiled, but there was heat there beneath her soft countenance. She was _furious_. At Harry for that stunt he just pulled? At Sansa because she so obviously lied even though they promised to tell each other everything? At herself, for not seeing the truth as false?

           Regardless, Sansa didn’t want to say anything else to warrant probing into secrets she wished she didn’t have. Things she’d done, and said – and for what? Sansa truly knew for a long time that there was more to that _thing_ she had with Petyr than the illusion of getting experience. There was...something much deeper, much more worse.

           Sansa felt a ghost: that soft, gentle press on her cheek.

           And that same, gentle stroke of thumb over her hand.

           Margaery continued. “Whatever you’re feeling… Just let me know soon. Okay?”

           It wasn't, and Sansa wasn't either. But she nodded. “Okay…”

           Even after Sansa stood there, alone, staring at her reflection in the arc of mirrors, she didn’t feel alone. Margaery’s words echoed in her head in tune with her confused heart.

           “What if…” she said to no one, clutching tighter to her skin. Wishing for a moment (and not for the first time) that she could disappear. “What if he won’t wait forever?”


	13. petyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ In case you guys have forgotten: 1, I fucking love angst, and 2, there’s an actual story going on here between all that gratuitous smut. And if you /have/ forgotten, well, that was your reminder.
> 
> All I can say though is that this story has suddenly turned into an angst-fest, and I’m only getting started lmao >:) ]

 

              His niece was going to drive him insane. 

              Well, to a certain level of insanity that Petyr hadn't even known was possible. Gods knew the moment Sansa walked into his life over a week ago (a week! How in the gods’ names was it only a week!) that he went mad. 

              All she left was a note on the table:

_ Going to visit a friend – be back late. _

              Petyr read and reread and re-reread the note over and over again. Her handwriting was neat and curly. The feeling growing inside his chest was neither of those.

              A “friend”? Sansa had few friends in King’s Landing, although he wouldn’t put it past his niece to call in someone from her school to spend the time with. There was only so much fun to be had in a huge city by oneself, even if one preferred the company of thoughts and silence. And gods knew if he hadn’t had this case looming over him – and that piece of shit Lion looming even closer – Petyr would have forgone work and kept Sansa company. It was only kind.

              Sansa befriended Kella easy enough, who was to say she hadn’t managed to find new friends in this city just as easily? Someone her age to gossip and buy overpriced coffees with. Only, too often her  _ friend _ came through Petyr’s mind as a piece of shit boy with sandy hair and roving fingers.

              And “late”? Well it was Tuesday morning now, soft grey light flooding the apartment. Petyr had last seen his niece Sunday night when he fucked her lovely little cunt with that dildo. He would be lying to say he hadn’t been planning something equally  _ sinful _ for last night, rushing through his work and dealing with the cramped metro. Rushing to arrive in an empty home with nothing but this note. 

_ She’ll be home soon _ , he told himself last night. The comfort in the words soured into anxiety the later and later it got. Past midnight and Petyr still listened out for the tell-tale rumble of the elevator, the quiet steps of her shoes on the floor. The surprised gasp when Sansa flicked the light on to her room and found her uncle, tired-eyed and frantic, lying on her bed.

              None of that. Only sounds of late-night King’s Landing trickling in through the walls kept Petyr company through the night. That, and his tireless thoughts that grew darker with each passing minute.

              So now, he was tired. And frustrated, and worried – among many other things – when he awoke to no Sansa.

              He told himself he was only concerned as a parent might be when he smashed Kella's number on his phone, frantically tapping his foot as the ringing filled his ear. Sansa had stayed with his housekeeper before, what's to say she didn't again? The night of her date with Harry the Douche. But as the second ring trilled in his ear, he wondered if Kella had been covering for Sansa. Kella wasn’t unused to lies, either. But the way Sansa squirmed beneath Petyr’s touch indicated she  _ hadn't  _ let the fucker do things to other (other than what he stole at dinner). But  _ what if _ . Petyr hated  _ what if’s.  _

              “Petyr?” came a sleepy voice on the other end, followed by a looooooong yawn. “The sun’s not even up yet…”

              Petyr had a vision of Sansa waving her arms at the woman in an attempt to keep her presence hush-hush. “Sorry to disturb you, Kells. My niece isn’t with you, is she?”

              “Sansa?” He heard the housekeeper groan on her way up from her bed. Then a heavy  _ crash  _ in his ear, followed by a mumbled “Stupid bloody thing…” Kella picked up her phone, yawning an apology into Petyr’s ear. “These damn phones are getting too big now.”

              “It’s alright.”

              Kella seemed to remember Petyr’s concern. “Oh, but Sansa? She’s not with you?”

              Petyr swept his gaze around the room, as if maybe he’d missed her. Maybe she was standing in the kitchen making breakfast. Or lounging on the sofa scrolling through her phone, laughing at whatever dumb stuff popped up on her social media.

              Or maybe some piece of shit douche was waking her up with his cock pressed against her ass.

              “No.” He cleared his throat, hoping that jealous rage didn’t seep through the receiver. “No, she left me a note yesterday saying she would be back late. You know how kids are.”

              “Oh I know.”

              “And now that it’s tomorrow, I couldn’t help but, well,  _ worry  _ where she is. I know the last time she stayed over at your place.”

              “Mmm-hmm.” Petyr heard something else in Kella’s voice. Perhaps a  _ Well maybe if you weren’t fucking Myranda that night, Sansa might not have been embarrassed to come home _ . 

              “So.” Petyr said, leaning against the couch and staring at the polished silver doors. If he willed it hard enough, would they slide open to reveal her? Likely not. But that wasn’t to say Petyr wasn’t trying. “Do you know  _ where _ she went exactly?”

              She was quiet for a few moments that Petyr couldn’t help but add a stern, “Kells.”

              “Okay, okay,  _ fine _ .” 

              “She...told you…” It wasn’t at all a question. More of a realization of, of what? Rejection? Fear? That for some reason, Sansa felt safe enough to tell Kella – who wasn’t even her legal guardian for the next several days – than Petyr. His fingers hurt white-knuckling his phone.

              “She didn’t tell me  _ much _ . About as much as you, really. Only that she was going to Highgarden to visit her friend for the day. She  _ was _ supposed to be back last night. I haven’t heard from her yet. Though gods knows it being the butt crack of dawn doesn’t help that.”

              “Highgarden…” Petyr couldn’t understand why Sansa would want to go back for a visit when she was bound to return for university next week. Wouldn’t Sansa want to stay here, away from all those cloying flowers? Sure, King’s Landing wasn’t ideal, but at least you didn’t feel like the vines were going to come alive and strangle you around any corner.

              “Yes,” Kella replied, pulling Petyr back into reality. “You know how girls are. Well, I suppose you don’t, really. Trust me. Some girls die without their best friends around for a couple of days. There’s just, I don’t know, a certain bond they have? Closer than sisters. I can’t imagine why Sansa wouldn’t have a friend like that, she’s such a lovely girl.”

              Petyr was still hung up on the revelation. He felt like Highgarden was important, incredibly important. But his mind wasn’t working this morning, too focused on the lack of a beautiful auburn-haired girl in his apartment. Sure, she left for Highgarden, but who’s to say she wasn’t lying in a ditch somewhere between there and King’s Landing? People were terrible. He’d dealt with – and set free – too many of them. If only he could safekeep Sansa away from everyone and everything. What could friends and boys give her that Petyr couldn’t? 

              “How about this, Pete? You go to work and stop worrying your pretty little head over Sansa. If she’s not home by tonight,  _ then _ you can worry. She’s seventeen, for gods’ sakes! Let her have a little  _ fun _ while she’s still young!”

              Those were the same words Myranda had said so many days ago, trying to console Petyr’s irrational worry. ‘Irrational’ only because he never felt this same amount of concern for Lysa’s Robert. Nor did he give a flying fuck at the children his coworkers brought during their holiday parties and galas. Pesky little things always trying to climb on top of tables and shove their hands into the chocolate fountains.

              But also ‘irrational’ because loathe he was to admit it, Petyr and Sansa had something between them that existed far beyond either a parental/sibling relationship, or a romantic one. Something more wicked. And far more fun.

              But tonight. Petyr let loose a long sigh. Tonight felt impossibly far away. Even the idea of getting through the day not knowing where she was was making him anxious now. He  _ needed  _ to have Sansa here. Now.  _ Because I'm worried about her.  _

              Among other unsavory thoughts. 

              Petyr sighed through his nose, trying to let the truth ease the hammering between his ribs. Sansa was okay. She was okay. She definitely wasn't sneaking around behind his back with that piece of shit from her date. She definitely wasn’t getting extra lessons from him, all while Petyr was right here waiting and willing. She definitely wasn’t trailing her fingers over that fucker’s chest after a good fuck (and he  _ could _ fuck her! He was young! He was probably what girls Sansa’s age cooed about with their hands over their mouths), daydreaming of the little house they were going to get outside of the city, filled with the noise of dogs and children and laughter. She definitely wasn’t using Petyr and throwing him away any chance she got.

              So much for quieting his heart. 

              “Thanks as always, Kells.” Petyr stood up from the couch, pacing through the apartments. His shoes glid quietly. “And how about if  _ you _ hear from Sansa before tonight, you tell me? Just so I don’t have to worry that long.”

              “I don't know why you two just don't have each other's numbers.” She yawned again. There was a bit of a chuckle to it. “Honestly, I feel like I'm back in junior high.”

              “Junior high?”

              “Yes! My girl friends and I, oh gods, we were simultaneously the best and worst at passing notes around in class. Although to be fair, notes weren’t the worst of our crimes. My best friend back then, Juliya, ooh boy, she was too familiar with the Septas’ rulers.  _ Whack _ , when she cut her skirts  _ just short _ enough. And  _ whack _ when she claimed her buttons always kept falling off her shirts even though she was one of the best in needlework. Really cute bras she was dying to get the boys at the school across the street to see.” Kella let loose a breathy laugh. “Oh, but high school was  _ worse _ .”

              “I'm surprised you remember that far back.”

              “Oh, shut it, you.”

              They laughed at that.

              Without realizing it, Petyr found himself pacing back in forth in Sansa’s room. Always gravitating towards her, maybe even before he  _ knew _ it. Sure, Lysa had the name, and the connection, to begin earning his way up to the top of Lannister & Baratheon. And sure, Lysa had her own heavy baggage that Petyr more often than not wormed his way out of carrying for her (even lifting up one corner). But by marrying that witch, Petyr met Sansa.

              Fates intertwined years ago. 

              Even before the accident.

              “Have the arrangements been made for the rest of the donations?” Petyr asked, flipping through Sansa’s small collection of things she brought from Highgarden. There wasn’t much to call this room  _ hers _ , really. Clothes strewn about, bed unmade. Untidy, which was unlike what Petyr expected of his niece. Her school reports, according to what Varys had brought him all those days ago, were all the highest marks. Even with the minor reprimands from the school Madames. The quote-unquote good girl: kind, sweet, polite, studious.

              And soon to be a wonderful fuck in his bed.

              Petyr sat down on the bed. Admiring the shape of Sansa’s head on the pillow, the few stray hairs caught on a lost hair tie. Even now, Petyr could smell the lingering headiness of their shared sin soaked into the sheets. Would he smell that same sin on Sansa’s skin? Could he taste it, imprinted there where he came on her stomach?

              How long did it take her to wash it off, he wondered.

              Kella’s voice wriggled through his thoughts. “...and we should be all set to go after this weekend. A shame you couldn’t keep  _ some _ of it at least. Or put it in storage, rather than throwing them all out.”

              “A shame I didn’t get rid of them sooner.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized it.

              “Petyr!” Kella chided. Had she been in the room, he would have earned a right smack to the shoulder. She had absolutely no qualms about  _ mothering _ him despite the grey peppering his hair, or the lines quietly etching his face.

              Nor was she completely unaware of the truth of his shaky relationship. Not all the truths, of course. But Kella was no stranger to the small ways in which Petyr displayed his unlove for his late wife. Nothing awful or permanent. Nothing at all like the sorts of husbands he had to deal with day in and day out – and willingly work to set them free, should their wallets be thick enough.

              “Well,” Kella mused, “I suppose it  _ is _ better you’re donating her stuff. Still.”

              Ah, so Kella had been talking about that. Fine by Petyr. He would have hated to get Kella mixed up in all that mess. “Better someone else gets use of her things rather than them sitting around collecting dust.” And now he was tired talking of his late wife. A good thing Lysa’s heart broke when her son fell ill for the last time. The poor boy was just too weak.

              Sansa’s suitcase sat half-open on the chair at the foot of the bed. He mindlessly gravitated towards it. His fingers digging through her things as he listened to Kella drone on about something he immediately didn’t care about anymore. The rest of her unused clothes sat mostly folded in the suitcase. Her underwear was tucked in one pocket, socks in the other. There was a book, too, and from the looks of the cover it was some cheesy ‘girl is tasked with the fate of the world, but more importantly, needs to decide between which two hunks to love’. Petyr groaned at the back cover: it was exactly what he predicted.

              Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, something kept Petyr from telling himself not to go snooping. What was his brain saying? That it was technically okay because this was his apartment, and Sansa (even if maybe she had doubts) was technically  _ his _ for the next few days. Maybe not emotionally, but by gods Petyr would do what he could to make it that way.

              How possible was it to call up her school and tell them Sansa chose to take a semester off? How possible was it to fuck off from this bloody retrial – not like the evidence being brought up was certifiably damning – and steal Sansa away? Dorne was exceptionally nice this time of year. Petyr would gladly buy his niece the finest swimsuits and dresses and underwear. She  _ deserved _ them, deserved more than even Petyr was capable of giving. His part in the first trial was reason enough.

              Kella’s voice was still droning on. About the donations? Maybe. Petyr hoped she hadn’t asked any questions; he heard not a word of what she said. 

              Something crunched as he shuffled Sansa’s stuff back inside. School work, perhaps? Petyr wouldn’t be surprised if Sansa had a collection of her report cards each marked with a solid A in all fields. Unless, she was hiding one that contained – gasp! – a B. 

              He imagined using it against her. Holding up the damning B in front of her in a proposition not to tell on her so long as Sansa grinded her lovely cunt over his cock and sucked off all of his come. Fueled by this idea, Petyr lifted the rest of her things. There wasn’t anything at the bottom. Except, the pair of dark grey jeans in his hands was stiffer than they should be. Tucking his phone between shoulder and cheek, Petyr unfolded the jeans and shook them out over the bed. The offending crinkle landed on the sheets with a louder  _ thump _ than he was expecting.

              Kella’s voice devolved from incoherent words to a constant static, offset by the growing beat of his heart. It was a bridal magazine.

              Petyr saw red. 

              It was dated over a year ago, back when Sansa was sixteen or fifteen. The cover had a sharp bend down the center, the corners so worn they were soft. At least half of the pages were dog-eared, and at least half of those had handwriting in the margins between women showcasing the flowy gowns of lace and silk. Petyr looked back at the cover – aha, the name, Hastwyck. He thought he recognized the style of the dresses. The finest dressmaker in Westeros, no doubt. At least half of his clients were filthy rich enough for these sorts of dresses. And Lysa – not at all content with modesty – demanded her dress to be as ridiculous as her jewelry. So everyone knew how much Petyr loved her. 

              As if.

              On those dog-eared pages in the space between dresses were two handwritings in a myriad of colored pens (some sparkly). Excitedly pointing to this dress or another, circling specific parts, or crossing them out with a big  _ No! _ (those were over the more traditional gowns, or the ones that teased the line between wedding dress and club outfit. Hastwyck in recent years chose to explore all sorts of styles, but their signature flowers and lace stood proud in each of their designs). Petyr couldn’t make out half of scribblings, but he recognized the curly-cues from Sansa’s note last night. An excited  _ omg this one is so pretty?? _ , and a  _ This!  _ Underlined four times. Petyr flipped through each and every page.

_ What the fuck is this _ .

              “...I might need to call a plumber, by the way. The tap in the guest bathroom is leaking again.”

              “Kella.”

              “I know! I just had the bloody thing fixed, what, two months ago? Might need to redo the bathroom then if it’s going to still be a problem.”

              “Kella.”

              “Okay, fine, no remodeling. But definitely should consider getting a new–"

              “ _ Kella _ .”

              “What?” Finally, the woman caught on to Petyr’s tone. She huffed into his ear, upset. “You’re not normally this  _ cranky _ in the mornings.”

              Who the fuck cared about leaky faucets when there was this  _ fucking magazine _ with Sansa’s handwriting all over it? Teenage girl or not, Sansa was too fucking young to be sold off to the first bidder. Sure, little girls imagined their weddings. All of the dancing, the good food, their dress spinning around them. Smiles and a kiss. But that usually stopped in their imaginations. What use did someone Sansa’s age have with this magazine?

              He was torn between throwing the fucking thing out of the window, or ripping it apart page by page, or even setting it ablaze. His mind was sane enough  _ not _ to do that. Not now, at least. 

              Weddings… What had Lysa demanded for her own? Everything, and the best. The Hastwyck gown. A ridiculous seven-tiered cake. Excessive roses for each table. And pure white lingerie.

              He heard something tear between his fingers. “You went to buy clothes for Sansa when she arrived.” 

              Not a question per se, but no doubt Kella caught on to his tone of voice. She’d been quiet all the while Petyr ruminated on this fucking magazine’s implication. “Yes…? She wanted some new clothes. I think I got her, what, a few new sweaters she could take back to university. Some pants? I tried to get her these really cute booties, but she said she was alright on shoes.”

              The magazine slipped, bouncing off the bed before falling into a heap on the floor. The torn page crumpled in his hands. Gods, the fucking model  _ looked _ like Sansa had Sansa been a few years older. Beautiful lace front with a flowing skirt. Beside it were three large exclamation points, in Sansa’s preferred teal blue. Petyr felt his muscles spasm. He was clutching the page so tightly, too tightly. And worse, was his brain replacing the model’s face with Sansa’s. Her sweet smile as she twirled in the dress. The way her delicate fingers would run over the material, words catching in her throat at how fucking gorgeous she truly was in it. And Petyr, standing behind her, beside her, words caught, too, as he marveled at his niece.

_ What do you expect from her, you piece of shit _ ? His mind was trying to free itself from his imagination, one in which Petyr found himself – studded in a clean black suit – twirling Sansa in a dance, all the world frozen around them.  _ Maybe she’ll fuck you, but she wouldn’t do that _ .

              Somehow,  _ that _ vision was the worst of all the ones he’d had.

              “And not just sweaters and dresses. But–" Petyr found his voice in the real world. How long had he been caught in the clutches of that horrid dream? Not too long, he hoped. Petyr licked his lips, suddenly parched. Because along with this crumpled page in his hands, tucked deep away in his briefcase was that lovely bit of white lace. "–underwear, too.  _ Lingerie _ .”

              Kella sniffed, deigning not to answer to Petyr’s hidden accusation for a few seconds. “I think there are certain secrets girls keep between themselves.”

              To his memory, Kella never mentioned buying the lingerie. Which she seemed to remember just then, swearing at herself for admitting that certain secret. A quiet “Shit.”

              “Kella.” Petyr was tearing a hole in the page. 

              “There’s nothing to say.”

              “As her  _ guardian _ ,” Petyr emphasized, hoping to shake Kella loose. That, and calling himself her guardian was the only other reason save for the truth of  _ As someone who plans to fuck her brains out the second she turns eighteen _ . The first was easier to swallow. “I  _ am _ concerned about who I think you let her buy them for. He has proven to be...not a sweet, cute boy.”

              Kella sighed. “Unfortunately, a lot of them are like that.”

              “Kella.”  _ Please _ . He didn’t say that, because Petyr wanted the upper hand. Admitting that he wasn’t able to get that information some other way with a  _ please _ was grounds enough for the cornered to shut their lips. Petyr learned that lesson the hard way.

              And so he waited. Kella didn’t hang up – he wouldn’t hate her for it, gods knew that’s what any sensible person should have done. Which meant Kella was feeling  _ guilty _ about her and Sansa’s little girl time. Petyr wondered if he could twist the tale of Harry. That Petyr saw him drag Sansa out to a back-alley, cooing words of  _ It’s alright _ , and  _ I promise I’ll be gentle _ . Shattering both those lies when he shoved Sansa’s mouth down around his cock.

              Kella didn’t have to know.

              “It…” she began. Luckily for Petyr, the guilt was enough. He leaned back on the bed. “Okay, yes, maybe? She said there was a boy she just met and she wanted to make a good impression. I didn’t buy her anything  _ scandalous _ , she’s still young. But no point in keeping her cooped up when there’s so many cute guys out there for someone like her!”

              So Sansa  _ did _ buy the lingerie for Harry.  _ Rippppp _ when the rest of the page. Petyr watched the two halves flutter to the floor. The model’s stoic face stared up at him. “Did she say anything about marriage?”

              “I– what? Marriage? Of course not! She’s seventeen, Petyr. If she  _ is _ thinking about marriage, it’s likely fantasies from all the cheesy romance movies girls love so much. And Sansa definitely isn’t the sort of girl to get hitched to the first boy to buy her dinner.”

_ I know, but… _

              Petyr didn’t have a good enough reason after the  _ but _ . He did know that the arrangement all those years ago had never been finalized, what with the trial and all. Sansa never  _ knew _ where her life might have gone had her family not been splintered. And so, the idea of Sansa going out of her way to rave about wedding dresses? The idea of Sansa finding the first cute boy and latching on to him? None of it fit the bare innocence of Sansa that he saw in the dead hours of the night. There was something he was missing, and that uncertainty was gnawing at his ribs as it sat, coiled between the bones. 

              The thought of being one-upped by his own niece sat sourly in his stomach.

              “Oh, that’s good.” At some point, Kella managed to brew herself a cup of coffee. Her quiet sipping and swearing that it was too hot trickled through the phone. “For gods’ sakes, Petyr. I never thought you were such a  _ father _ , the way you weren’t around little Robert.” Another sip, followed by a satisfying  _ ahhhhh _ . “Any particular reason why you’re so  _ concerned _ over this?”

              Oh, there was a fire raging inside him. To fuck Sansa, yes. But to fuck over that boy she dated. A boy that – just maybe – she was considering throwing herself away for. For what end? 

              Honestly, Petyr didn’t care. He just wanted that piece of shit  _ gone _ .

              He stepped on the torn halves with the heel of his shoe, grinding it down until it was an unintelligible crumple. “Just a newfound fatherly concern, is all.”

* * *

              “I’d like to call in a favor.”

              Petyr kept his gaze flickering between the documents on his screen and the sliver of window beside the door. His mint tea had gone cold an hour ago. At least. A glance at the clock in the corner of the screen said it was nearly noon already.

              The man’s voice on the other end of the line was gruff. “Is that you, Baelish?”

              “How quickly can you change someone’s records?” Petyr pulled a Tywin, ignoring the man’s question. The less he gave away about what he was doing, the better. That was always his course of action for these sorts of things. Although, usually Petyr had the backing of the firm’s names behind him to get people to snap to his tasks right away. If it was for  _ the _ Tywin Lannister, evidence could be easily forged or misplaced (for the right price on top of the name. People were so  _ greedy _ ).

              But this task of his, Petyr had to go into it alone. No one else had to know that though.

              Lothor must have gleaned that Petyr was going off the books, by the way Petyr heard the quiet  _ clackclackclack _ of shades being drawn closed. The man let out a drawn-out huff as he sat down. “Depends what you’re planning to charge them for.”

              A wonderful accomplice. Lothor rarely, if ever, asked questions. And Petyr, rarely if ever, failed to deliver on the officer’s wants. Petyr wondered if this would be the usual fare or not. “Nothing  _ murderous _ . Just enough to get him put away for a couple days or weeks. At least.”

              Someone walked past his office. Petyr’s mouse hovered over the X, staring at the sliver of outside until the shadows stopped moving. Behind him, daylight snuck in between the his own drawn shades. Doubtless anyone knew what he was doing, and doubtless anyone would be peeking in through the windows. But Petyr was cautious (or, to some, paranoid).

              “Hm.” Lothor (likely) was rubbing his chin. “There’s been too much alcohol cases, recently. Unless they fucking run someone over or something, eh, not gonna work.”

              “Hookers? Drugs?”

              Petyr heard the shrug. “Hookers are hit and miss. Depends who’s the head on duty that day. Personally I let those sly unless like, they’re underage. Or they’re killed.” A squeak as Lothor adjusted himself. “But drugs are always a good bet, though. Weed’s harmless enough for a few days, what with the new mayor. Or opiates, if you want them out a little longer. I can probably find some crack if you really want them in trouble?” 

              Crack was also harder to get, at least on the streets. Doubtless the station had boxes full of the stuff that they wouldn’t notice a package or two missing. 

              When Petyr hadn’t replied, Lothor added, “Do you need them planted, too?”

              “Of course.”

              “That’ll cost extra.”

              “You know I have the money.”  _ Or, at least the Lion does.  _ The amount Tywin allocated for his grandson’s retrial was  _ staggering _ . Especially based on what the evidence brought up against them was. Petyr wondered if the accuser had more evidence they were waiting to bring up at the trial. Something actually concrete? Something that even Petyr couldn’t forge.

              The sound of a lighter strike, the quiet crackling of a cigarette. One puff, two. Petyr could smell it. “When do you need this by?”

              “Yesterday.”

              “Ain’t got a time machine.”

              “Then tonight. Fuck, Lothor, the sooner the better. But tonight at the latest.”

              “Shit, Baelish. I’ve got my own cases to work on too, you know.”

              “Double then.

              “Deal.”

              Lothor wasn’t even  _ trying _ . Nor was Petyr. He knew he would have agreed to whatever ridiculous demands, so long as he could get that motherfucker out of the way. How deep had he set his claws into Sansa?

              Petyr looked at the records on the screen. Harry was clean save for a speeding ticket, but everyone had one of those. And of course he paid it off without complaint. He was in university (making him and Sansa being together illegal, too). Petyr stared at the smug smile of his photo – the look of someone who knew they could get what they wanted, because no one ever denied them it before. It was the same fucking look Joffrey had.

              Lothor took a single, long drag of his cigarette. Half the smoke crumpled against the receiver – Petyr cringed at the sound. The favor was called in, the deal done. Petyr should hang up his phone already but he had a feeling there was something Lothor was chewing to ask. Lothor was usually the first to end a conversation, regardless the topic.

              After another drag, the officer finally spoke, “Is it better not to know why you’re trying to fuck up someone? Usually you’re doing the fucker’s work...”

_ Probably better you don’t know _ . And definitely better Lothor never figured out  _ why _ . Out of every person in King’s Landing – hells, out of every person in Westeros – Lothor was likely the only person Petyr would trust not to flip every single shit at the truth. But what good would that do Petyr? None. 

              “The guy’s…” On the long and ever-growing list of people Petyr’s fucked over these years, Harry was way down on the bottom. “He’s just someone who I’m pretty sure is gonna do shit. If he hasn’t already. Look, Lothor, get the job done by tonight and I’ll add in a bonus. A blonde  _ and  _ a brunette?”

              “Only if they’re tits are big.”

              “Fine.”

              “Deal.”

              The day was already half over. And assuming Lothor  _ did _ have his own pile of work to get done, he’d better move fast. “Let me know when you finish the job. Weed’s probably fine, but I don’t care one way or the other what you plant on him. Oh, and– shit.”

              Petyr shut his phone off, slamming it on his desk. It bounced off the corner, clattering to the floor.

              “Shit.”

              By the time he kicked it under the desk his door had already closed again with a silent  _ click _ . “Who’s doing you under the table with all the blinds closed?”

              She had a one-track mind, that was certain. 

              “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking.” Petyr was blindly trying to close up the last of the documents on his monitor as surreptitiously as he could. From the corner of his vision, all he was managing was marking up lines and rotating the PDF.

              Myranda sat on the other side of his desk, generously lifting her skirt to do so. Her underwear did little to hide what she was so graciously showing beneath. “I have. But it’s more fun to see people freak out when they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t be.”

              Petyr asked flatly, “Don’t you have work to be doing elsewhere?” He didn’t feel like dealing with Myranda right now. 

              “Oh, for sure.” Myranda snuck around the desk, not at all hiding her hungry gaze. She swept over the remaining documents on the screen – nothing obvious, it could be for any minor case, gods knew the firm dealt with too many pro bonos to offset all the shady shit they did. Myranda’s gaze quickly turned back to Petyr. Of course, the vixen wasn’t here to snoop out a stranger. 

              She made it  _ very _ obvious with where she laid her hand.

              “Oh, happy to see me?”

              Quite the opposite. Was it good or bad that Petyr had been getting off on the idea of that douchebag getting what he deserved, rather than the memories of what he had done to his niece? But now with a reminder, hells yeah was he aching to touch Sansa again. Fuck her again. Have the wonderful taste of her come cover his tongue as he inched closer to that imaginary line of theirs.

              Except, all that imagining wasn’t doing him any good right now. Myranda’s fingers squeezed his cock. 

              “You know, I’ve always liked a man with a beard.” She moved her hand over his length, and Petyr was thankful for the darkness. Much easier to pretend it was Sansa’s hand. “Feels fucking fantastic when it scratches against my skin. Especially my thighs.”

              She was far from being covert today. “I’m not going to eat you in my office.”

              Myranda pouted her lip. It might have looked cute on someone half her age – and definitely had looked cute on Sansa, whether in his imagination or when she played innocent with the dildo wrapped around her hands. But with the amount of eyeliner and the low cut of her blouse (there was no imagination needed), Myranda looked only to be  _ trying too hard _ . “Oh, you’re no  _ fun _ anymore. You take me out on  _ one _ date, fuck me a couple of times, and kick me out of your bed.” She pressed closer, stroking his cock with a growing rhythm. Petyr couldn’t deny the girl knew her way around pleasuring a man. But gods if she wasn’t the last person he wanted to see, let alone fuck in his office right now. He couldn’t help but think of all the times Lysa tried to do the same, with less successful results. “What, you’ve found someone better? Is she younger than me? Prettier? You like a girl with smaller tits and a tight cunt or?”

_ She knows _ .

              Of course she doesn’t. Petyr was just fucking paranoid as all seven hells. Myranda was just  _ jealous _ . Her grip was teetering towards painful. 

              Petyr grabbed hold of Myranda’s wrist. She was eager to try and rub him out still. “I’ve been stressed with Joffrey’s case, that’s all.”

              “All the more reason for a quick fuck. We can go upstairs? Or do it right here if you like? Or if you really want to stick it to the man, I can suck you off underneath the conference table…”

              He blinked. The girl shrank into a smaller body, with boundless red curls, and a lovely summer dress whose edge creeped higher and higher on pale thighs. Revealing not lace and silk, but the tight curls just above lips glistening with need. Sansa clutched the fabric of her dress over her breasts with one hand, gingerly approaching her opening with the other. And watching Petyr all the while.

_ Like this? _

              He blinked. Myranda stubbornly sat there instead, with that devilish grin playing over her lips. Petyr knew he had one of his own – maybe worse? – but damn the gods if it wasn’t whiplash seeing it on someone else. “Even if we do fuck, I’d bet a twenty that you’d be back here after lunch looking for another quickie.”

              “I’ll take that bet. Even if I know I’m gonna lose.” She winked.

              “And I won’t.” Petyr yanked Myranda’s hand off of his cock (his cock, meanwhile, was saddened by the lack of pressure, even if it  _ was _ Myranda). “I need to get back to work. You can go.”

              That wasn’t what Myranda wanted to hear. “Why are you so defensive?”

              Petyr stared at her, biting the inside of his lip. The last thing he needed right now was someone like Myranda finding reason to hate him, and in turn, find something to hold against him. Something like a seventeen-year-old girl who tasted of lemons and sin. The easiest thing to do was take Myranda up on his offer: go up to the abandoned floor and pretend Petyr was fucking his niece. Or even let her sneak between his legs and blow him off. She was fucking  _ insatiable _ , and fucking  _ annoying _ .

              He knew he shouldn’t have fucked her last week. He knew  _ this _ was going to happen. It was just like Lysa; the minute that woman got a taste of Petyr (figuratively and literally, he shuddered), the woman declared him his. Granted, Petyr needed Lysa for her title. So the bad sex and sloppy kisses were a necessity. What could Myranda offer Petyr? She was below him in the office. Her name was higher than Baelish but not nearly high as Arryn. She was too junior to have any beneficial connections with clients or dealers or whomever. Even Tywin seemed to tolerate her these past few weeks. Once, when she was making an advance on Petyr in the kitchen, Tywin walked in, pretended to check his watch, and turned around as if late for a meeting. As if the Lion didn’t have thirty notifications for every call or appointment.

              Everyone just seemed to tolerate her, really. Or maybe that was just Petyr projecting on everyone else.

              “Look.” Petyr said, keeping his voice stern. Unfortunately, Myranda smiled – she must like being bossed around. Gods knew she liked when Petyr took control. He shook his head. “After this case is over, I’ll take you out on another date – a better date – and I’ll fuck you over and over again until you can’t walk. And then, when your cunt’s dripping wet with my come and your ass is redder than the sunset, I’m going to take you again until you’re begging me to stop.”

              Petyr had exactly zero intention on doing just that. But that’s what Myranda wanted to hear. And that’s what Petyr knew what to do: what others expected of him. 

              Myranda, taking the bait like the greedy thing she was, smiled wider. “Oh, you’re going to regret making me that promise,  _ Petyr _ .” She trilled his name, and Petyr shivered at the sound. A bad shiver.

              He fucking prayed to every god that he would be long out of the country by then, with a lovely red-haired woman beside him. Or beneath him. 

              Without asking (as her usual), Myranda picked up the topmost photos in the ever-growing folder of the case. She flipped through them, not paying attention to what was on them. Killing time. For what? Myranda already got a deal out of Petyr (even if it was false on his end). Did she still expect something from him now? 

              Petyr leaned back in his chair. He would be remiss to say he wasn’t thinking about the last time he leaned back in a chair with a woman standing in front of him. And then everything that happened after that afternoon! Petyr never would have thought things would happen and happen so quickly between him and Sansa. 

              What god made a mistake to bless him with her?

              “What’s so special about Joffrey’s case anyways?” Myranda asked in a carefree way. As if everyone in this office didn’t already know all of the details of the boy’s charges. Or attempted charges. Because Petyr had done his job right last time. No one bothered to dig into it until  _ now _ .

              “Nothing, really.” 

              Myranda was flipping between the two photos. Then realized it was almost a game of  _ What’s Different _ , trying to figure out how one blurry photo of a car was different from the same blurry photo of the same car. Same trees. Same kink in the guard railing. Same driver.

              “What’s…” she began, pouting her lips in frustration.

              “It’s not the  _ actual _ photo that’s interesting,” Petyr chimed in. 

              Myranda glanced up at him. Back to the photos. She was flipping through them slower now. And finally: a half-laughed. “Everyone’s in a tizzy over two minutes?” Myranda tossed the photos back onto his desk. One slid off the edge, Petyr barely catching it.

              “Two minutes is a lot in a case of this magnitude, you know.” Everyone knew, Petyr especially. He saved Joffrey’s ass by two minutes.

              “What about if you gave me two minutes, hm?”

              This again…

              Myranda was already spreading her legs, lifting up her skirts. She tugged on one of Petyr’s wrists. “I think I deserve a reward for figuring it out, don’t you?”

“I–"

              “Um, Mr Baelish, sir? I hope I’m not interrupting.”

              A thin slice of light cut through the darkened office. Petyr wanted to kiss the boy for saving him. 

              Olyvar scrunched his face at Myranda. She appraised him, not unlike a predator. The boy was blessed not to fall victim to Myranda’s wiles. Olyvar was unfazed by her breasts or the uncouth way she kept her legs apart A pity Petyr had let himself fall into it, even without ever meaning to fall deep enough.

              “Don’t you have someplace to be?” Olyvar asked, leaning against the doorframe. He tried to play himself cool, but his foot was tapping too fast for that.

              Myranda sat up straighter, not bothering to close up the gap in her shirt that Petyr hadn’t realized grew large enough to display the whole of her bra. “Don’t you have something shoved up your ass? Although, you’d probably like that…”

              Olyvar’s cheeks pinked at that, but he stood his ground. Looking at Petyr now, ignoring Myranda outright. “As I mentioned in the email I sent? The meeting’s been rescheduled. You never replied, so I figured I’d tell you before Mr Lannister asked for you.”

              “Thank you, Olyvar.” 

              The boy smiled at the compliment. He was so green, it was going to be interesting watching reality crush that smile.

              Myranda shook her head,  _ tsk _ ing all the while. She wasn’t used to being thrown off so easily, that was for certain. And Petyr still had to figure out a way to get the girl off of his ass. Would Lothor be up for a two-for-one deal? And if so, did Tywin have the coin enough to spare?

              She slithered out of Petyr’s office, looking back as she wriggled her skirt back down her thighs, adjusting the cut of her blouse. The edge of the desk left a heavy imprint on the back of her thighs.

              Olyvar was still standing just inside the door, holding onto a fresh cup of coffee. His knuckles were white. A thin crescent indented his lower lip.

              “Thank you, Olyvar,” Petyr repeated, when Myranda was long gone. With a nod, he dismissed him.

              Olyvar wasn’t lying, at least. Tucked in between the array of unread messages was one saying the meeting had been moved up to noon. Great, no lunch today. 

              Petyr fished for the phone that managed to worm its way to the very back of the gap between his desk and the wall, dust clinging to his cuffs. He wiped them clean, checking to see if Lothor messaged him back. Nothing new. Nothing from Kella, either. Or Sansa, even if by some miracle she managed to get his number. He thought of Kella’s joke on them not having each other’s information. Petyr told himself time and again it was better not having quick and easy access to his niece. But what if something happened to her? Something more than a botched date with a horny piece of shit? 

              He’d have to run it by Sansa. Paint it as the same fatherly concern that had him teaching her all things improper.

              Petyr wiped Harry’s files from his computer, the internet history too, and anything remotely related to one Douchebag McGee. Readjusted the pile of photo evidence in the thick folder before dealing with his own douchebag. 

              “She takes a lot of sugar in her coffee.”

              Petyr startled at the bald man standing just down the hall. A cup of spiced tea was in his fingers, and he looked as typically disinterested in everything else. 

              “Good for her?” Petyr checked his watch. He had a minute to spare to talk with his coworker.

              “A pity the big man takes his black.” Varys made a face before taking a sip of his drink. There was a heavy waft of cinnamon and nutmeg.

              Petyr looked at the man, then down the hall to where Myranda no doubt wandered off, horny and annoyed. At least Petyr gave her one hell of a fantasy to masturbate to in the bathroom.

              But if Varys was implying what Petyr thought he was... And if Varys – being too nosy for his own good, yet never showing  _ how _ he got his gossip (he knew things people didn’t even know were secrets about themselves) –  _ knew _ certain truths about Petyr. Well. Petyr was just glad they were closer to friends than enemies.

              “With all the spices in yours, I’m surprised you haven’t fallen ill. What cup is that this morning, three?”

              Varys shrugged. “Fourth. But who’s counting.”

              “Hm.”

              “However,” Varys continued, cupping his tea between both manicured hands. “I promise I’m not stalking your  _ sordid _ affair with Ms. Royce. Tywin was looking for you.”

              “Yes, Oly swung by just now.”

              “Ah. Then I shouldn’t have even bothered.” Varys tipped his head and continued off down the hall, a trail of spices following him wherever he went. Petyr couldn’t help but wonder  _ how _ the man was able to sneak up on people when he was so obvious, and so out-of-place. 

              Yet again, that’s what Varys expected people to think. 

* * *

              Sansa was in the shower when Petyr got home.

              The trickling of water through the door, her quiet murmurs as she sang (some pop song, no doubt). Worse were the images. The sight of water trailing down her wonderous curves, her rich auburn curls turned dark, plastered against her pale skin. In a better world, Petyr would have to  _ imagine _ what his niece looked like naked. Would have to  _ imagine _ how she looked pleasuring herself. The little sounds she made as she neared her climax. The frantic roll of her hips as she urged her release closer. 

              Thank gods Petyr lived in this world.

              Petyr flipped through the pile of her things she left on the kitchen counter. Kella had texted him only half an hour ago, saying that Sansa texted her she was  _ Back and safe, so pls stop worrying :) _ . 

              Petyr stared at Kella’s text, anticipating one from Lothor to say he’d finished the job. But this was just as good. Better, even. Petyr texted back a simple  _ Thanks _ and rushed out of his office. There was enough progress made on the case. Besides, he hadn’t even noticed when the sun set. Petyr had a meeting set up tomorrow with the autobody, to make sure their reports hadn’t been forged too (or, rather, re-forged). There weren’t any witnesses that needed their memory jogging, which was a blessing. And Joffrey. Well, he was as stubborn as ever, but at least he (and practically everyone else) had their wits enough to listen to his grandfather. The lie was repeated over and over again until even Joffrey started to forget what he’d actually done.

              Thank the gods Myranda was on the phone as Petyr snuck out. She was trying her best to be sneaky – covering her hand over mouth, whispering (even if it was still loud) – but Petyr couldn’t help but catch a word here and there.  _ Another man _ , and  _ photos, _ and  _ lying bitch _ . A spat with her boyfriend? Hah. Petyr always had the impression that she was willfully cheating on someone. And with Petyr. For what? A chance at climbing up the ladder? A chance to sneak some money out of him while he was  _ vulnerable _ , either through the supposed heartache of being a widow (of which Myranda made it abundantly clear she knew was a lie), or from her magical cunt. It was good, but hardly good enough for Petyr to go stupid for.

              Petyr laughed at whatever boyfriend was on the other end of the line. Poor guy. 

              “San–" he caught himself as he walked out of the elevator. He caught a smile, too, at the ridiculous idea of calling out  _ Honey I’m home _ as if he were either married (still) or a husband from a 1950’s sitcom. Was it the giddiness of anticipation that flowed through him? The idea that in less than an hour (he checked his watch), Lothor should have drugs planted on that boy, and then by tomorrow at lunch he’ll be out of Petyr’s hair? 

              And then Sansa could be all his.

_ Whatever happened to that Petyr of a week ago _ , he wondered. The Petyr who used to be appalled at these thoughts. These actions. These unsightly urges for  _ more more more _ . Oh! He died the moment Petyr allowed those wicked thoughts creep out from his brain into the real world, exploring Sansa with as much care of his rule. And gods, maybe he  _ would _ have reigned in that terrifying hunger, had Sansa not herself been so receptive to his urges. The little hitch of her breath as he invaded her space in the kitchen. How she forgot to breathe as he traced his hands just over her skin, dying to make contact. The determination in her eyes to be good at all the violently wicked things Petyr showed her. 

              Even as she strode into his office and lifted up her skirt for him.

              Yes. The monster wasn’t a monster if the girl didn’t cower at the sight of him.

              Sansa hit the chorus just then, belting it out. Her words were sweet, louder than the pounding of the water echoing through the apartments. Petyr couldn’t help but smile at her childishness. Imagine if she had been a regular teenager with a regular uncle. Perhaps her parents might still be dead, and her siblings gods-knew-where. But imagine how differently their relationship would have gone had neither felt the sudden twinge of desire when they first met eyes. There was no doubt in Petyr’s mind that Sansa  _ had _ to have felt that same ache. She might not have known, or realized it, but it  _ had _ to be there.

              Sansa’s stuff was piled atop the kitchen counter, along with a bag of takeout. And just like that, his smile was gone.

              In two strides Petyr’s hands were already fishing through her things. 

_ It’s for her own good _ .

              A singly-punched round trip ticket to Highgarden dated yesterday, and a one-way ticket bought this morning. So Sansa (and Kella) hadn’t been lying about where she was going, at least. That eased the darkness inside his chest. Some loose coins tossed in the bottom of her purse and a half-empty bag of those lemon drops she bought earlier. The receipt for her takeout and a folded up flyer for some hip new app she must have taken out of kindness. 

              There wasn’t a nice little black box with a sparkly little silver diamond to go with the fucking magazine he discovered earlier. Oh, wouldn’t  _ that _ have been the icing on the cake? He chuckled.

              But there  _ were _ other things. Things that he told himself were for his and Sansa’s own good to snoop around in, to shoo away the guilt at being nosy. Neatly folded wrappers of macarons from a bakery written in the curliest font even Petyr couldn’t decipher the name. Something foreign. A brochure from a flower store, torn bits of the corners making friends with the coins and gum wrappers at the bottom of her purse. 

              Nothing entirely  _ damning _ , he knew. No folded piece of paper with practiced calligraphy of  _ You’re cordially invited to the wedding of... _ Life wasn’t so blatant as all those cheesy movies, after all.

              But it just...fit too perfectly for it  _ not _ to be the truth. Some foofy bakery that – should Petyr decipher the name – just  _ happened _ to make wedding cakes, too? A florist who likely had a rush order of wedding flowers for a certain Ms Stark (or whatever pseudonym she used. That would explain the coins. No paper trail if she paid in cash). 

              And the fucking magazine! 

              Petyr saw it all. Sansa clad in one of those elegant dresses posed perfectly on glossy sheets with notes written in the margins. A radiant bouquet of flowers in her hands. A veil so gossamer covering her eyes, Petyr might have forgotten how deep and dark sapphire was. Behind her, a cake towering higher than even the monstrosity that Lysa ordered. And beside her, a shadowy-faced man in a smart suit, grinning the prospect of his new  _ wife _ .

              Especially when he lifted her veil as they leaned in for a kiss. Their first kiss, as man and woman, as husband and wife.

              Petyr kicked a chair so hard it shot halfway across the kitchen before tumbling over.

              Why the fuck was he getting so fucking worked up over this? Why the fuck did he  _ care _ so much? She was his niece! She was half his age! She was allowed to love whomever she wanted, and dream of her future with whomever she wanted! 

              And yet. The thought of her being someone else’s hurt more than the thought of their relationship being a built on forbidden sin.

              Sansa’s singing rang out through the apartment. Joyful and carefree. Unaware of the precipice Petyr was standing on, watching the waves beneath him roil and crash against jagged rocks. Sansa blissful unaware of what she was doing to him. What she’d done to him.

              That was it.

              Petyr strode down the hall, but the guest bathroom was empty.  _ Drip drip drip  _ went that leaky faucet. But that couldn’t have been  _ it _ – the reason – Sansa, wasn’t here. Couldn’t have been the reason, as Petyr strode down the rest of the hall, turning on the light to his bedroom, why Sansa would have chosen to use  _ his _ instead. The light beneath the door and the song creeping through it. Tempting him, pulling him in with each step. The door wasn’t even  _ locked _ . Likely Sansa hadn’t expected her uncle home quite so soon.

              Her singing cut short the moment Petyr yanked the curtain aside.

              “Petyr!” Sansa covered her chest with one arm and moved to grab the curtain with the other. Petyr only pulled it back further away. Water spilled over the edge of the tub. “What are you–!? You shouldn’t be–!?” In the flurry of her words, Sansa let go of the curtain and chose instead to cover herself up with her hands. Embarrassment finally caught up with her shock, staining her cheeks pink.

              Cute. As if Petyr hadn’t already seen all of her before. Or rather, as if Sansa hadn’t been oh too  _ willing _ to display herself for Petyr. Sure, he might have coerced her. Just a little. And also with the promise of a couple of amazing orgasms. But still. 

              Petyr  _ needed _ Sansa to be partially at fault for this impure thing between them. For the turmoil in his head, his chest.

              The rings of the curtain squeaked against the rod above. The water’s spray bounced off of Sansa, finding freedom in the bathroom beyond the tub. Petyr’s shoes were leather, his tie silk, but he didn’t care about them right now. He wasn’t even concerned about the fact that Sansa was naked. Or afraid.

              His thoughts were a jumble.  _ What the fuck do you think you’re doing, and who the fuck have you been doing _ . He forgot to breathe.  _ Have you been lying this whole time _ . Petyr gripped the curtain tighter. The rings squealed.  _ When the fuck is the wedding _ .

              Quietly, “Petyr?” 

              That snapped him out of his brain. Nothing good ever came from lingering in that darkness. 

              “What the–" he began, biting his lip. Everything wanted to flood out immediately into a single roar, louder than the pounding of the water behind Sansa or the pounding of his heart inside his ribs. Breathe in. Petyr tried to focus on Sansa’s body, the way her right arm barely managed to eclipse a nipple, or the fact that she didn’t shove him out. Breathe out. 

              “Petyr…?” Sansa’s voice was quieter this time, her mouth parted after his name left her lips. The sight of it – of her innocence! An innocence Petyr wanted, needed, craved – had his mind wondering over and over who else she spoke so sweetly to. Who else had seen her naked, and vulnerable, and in the throes of an orgasm.

              He shoved himself in the shower, cowing Sansa into the corner behind the spray of water. She shivered as the cold tiles kissed her back. Were her nipples equally responsive to that? Damn her hand for being in the way.

              Petyr shook his head clear. “What are you playing at, Sansa?”

              The water was warm, but Petyr didn’t feel anything but a hundred thousand cold pricks of knives stabbing into him. His suit was ruined, his shoes too, but fuck those. He stared at Sansa. Leaned in closer, until there was hardly any room between them. Heard that quiet, lovely little hitch of her breath Petyr repeated himself, slowly, enunciating each word as if Sansa hadn’t heard him.

              “I…” A crease formed between her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Petyr, please.” She moved to push him away, her hands leaving careful wet prints against the front of his jacket (cute that she tried to be careful about it), but Petyr didn’t let her budge him. “Can we...can we talk about this – whatever this is – outside?”

              So she could run away and fuck off to her  _ not-a-thing _ boyfriend? Or was he suddenly her  _ fiance  _ now? It was hard trying to keep up with the maelstrom of thoughts, emotions. Petyr rested his free hand against the tiles beside her head. Knuckles dug into the hardness, he felt the bones in his wrist shake. Sansa moved away half an inch. Although, there was hardly any room to move further, between his blocking arm and the other side of the tub. 

              “You’ve been lying this whole time, Sansa.”

              Try as she might, her eyes widened at the accusations. Because Petyr was right. And fuck if he didn’t want to be wrong. “I don’t–"

              “Stop it.” He leaned in closer. Wet strands of her hair tickled his forehead. He could smell soap –  _ his _ soap, and his shampoo – mixed with that delectable scent of Sansa. He pushed his hand harder against the tiles. “I don’t want you to lie to me Sansa. I saw what you have.”

              Maybe admitting snooping wasn’t the best course of action, but Petyr knew Sansa would be the one to lie lie lie unless he had some modicum of proof otherwise. What if he said he found her wedding ring? It had to be tucked away somewhere, a pocket within a pocket. Maybe there was a loose bit of carpet in her room. He’d have to check.

              “It’s–" she licked her lips, swallowed, "–for my friend. She’s going to get married soon. Even though I told her she’s too young. Way too young. But she, she insisted. Says she loves him, with all her heart. Even if she knows, maybe, she shouldn’t marry him. And she… Look, it’s not what you think!”

              Sansa was rambling. Gods, did she even realize how  _ obvious _ her lies were? Maybe, and definitely because of that she couldn’t stop herself. More and more lies to make the first lies less lies. None of it worked. Petyr waited until she finished her tale of her  _ friend _ and how her  _ friend _ was dragging her around to all these wedding places. As if.

              When she had finished, Petyr counted three breaths, one two three. Let the pounding water ground him in the here and now, and away from rushing to his phone to tell Lothor to make sure the body would never be found. Petyr kept his voice steady as he said, “Don’t lie to me.”

              Sansa’s eyes widened. “I’m not.”

              Petyr waited. Sansa managed to control her mouth from spewing another endless list of empty lies. How difficult was it for her to keep them shut from the truth? Just on the other side of her lips, pushing at the skin. Petyr saw her jaw feather with the strain of keeping it all in. 

              On and on, Petyr waited. He didn’t have to say anything else, or anything actually damning. When shoved into a corner – the implication of their sins and wrongdoings hanging in the air, and the assumption that there was nowhere else to go but through the harrowing truth – people broke too easily. 

              But Sansa was stubborn. As stubborn as he was. Even as Petyr inched just a little bit closer into her space, the front of his suit touching her arms that were still wrapped over her breasts. Even as Petyr hovered his thigh in front of hers, dying to dip between and spread her legs apart. Even as Petyr inhaled that wonderful mixed scent of her and him. Sansa bit her lip, so tightly she nearly drew blood. 

              “Do you love him?”

              The question came out before he had a chance to reign it in. But when Sansa hadn’t answered immediately, Petyr had his answer. Her first response should have been  _ Yes, of course I do! _ , said faster than even she could get the words out. Her heart would be brimming with love for her husband-to-be. Petyr would have gladly accepted a cross slap to the face and the resignation that someone warmed up her heart first (even if he hated that idea).

              But this? The obvious uncertainty that played over her face, even as Sansa tried her best to hide it? Petyr admitted it eased the jealousy coiled around his heart, just a bit.

              Her voice was so quiet against the water, against his heart. “I think so.”

              “You  _ think _ so?” Petyr glanced at her breasts, at the hand spread wide over one in modesty. The ring finger was bare. Through the falling water, he could have sworn a shimmer of silver wrapped around it. Back up to her eyes. “You  _ think _ you want to marry him?”

              “I never said I was going to marry him.”

              “Then why have you been looking at wedding cakes and flowers?”

              “I told you, it’s my  _ friend _ . She’s the one picking the cake and the flowers and the dr–" Sansa cut herself off. A shiver tore through her body, and not from the tiles or the lack of space that separated them. Petyr wanted to pry the truth of it from her, but knew Sansa was far too stubborn in her tapestry of lies. 

_ Stop fucking lying _ , he wanted to scream. “You  _ think _ you love him…?”

              Sansa furrowed her brows, and nodded. 

              Petyr licked his lips. If he leaned in just a little further, he could taste her mouth. Press his against hers. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring at hers until he dragged his gaze up into sapphire.

              “Then prove it, sweetling.” Into his mind came that last shred of reason through the haze of darkness in the form of  _ What the fuck are you doing? _ Petyr yelled back at it,  _ Get the fuck out _ . He was in too deep right now to  _ care _ about anything else. That monster that shivered at the thought of becoming  _ this _ ? This shadowy thing filled with obsession and lust? This hallowed thing hungry and desperate for his niece?

              What was Sansa seeing as she stood there, helpless and naked? Not a man, and certainly not a moral one.

              “Prove…?” she trailed off, a gulp falling down her throat.

_ What are you doing? _ “Prove that you don’t love that f–" Petyr bit the insult. It was bad enough he was doing  _ this _ , but talking shit about someone she might  _ actually _ love? Guaranteed Sansa would run away at the first chance she got. Perhaps another way, then. “Prove that you don’t love me.”

              Her eyes widened first, then narrowed. Uncertain. “H-how?”

              A part of him knew he won. It was the same as before. Sansa not outright denying something meant the same as it being real. She was so terrible at lying. Petyr hoped she never had to stand trial – the prosecutor would eat her alive. 

              Still. Her tells might have said Petyr was right, that he won. But, a part of him knew he might still lose.

              His hand against the tiles moved slowly down, tracing a groove of grout with a knuckle. He could tell Sansa was watching his movement without actually looking. That she could somehow feel Petyr’s hand trail along the curve of her side, her thigh, without even touching her. Maybe it was a trick of the light and water, but Sansa shivered. 

              This was the stupidest thing ever. Not the stupidest thing Petyr had ever done; the stupidest thing  _ anyone _ had ever done. Lying in a courtroom full of people was far less worse than this. Petyr felt a shudder worm its way down his body as his eyes reached the join of her legs. “Show me that you aren’t affected, sweetling. By the things I’ve done to you, or the things that I’m going to do right now.” Petyr’s fingers were a hair’s breadth away from her thigh. “That my kisses don’t ignite an ache between your legs. Or the feel of my hands on your breasts, your thighs, as I pull you onto me.” He swallowed, his throat impossibly tight. Slowly, and somehow, Petyr looked back up into her eyes. “Prove that you don’t love me, and I’ll stop. Everything.”

              From the rise and fall of her chest, Sansa was proving otherwise. Not to mention their wonderful (and too few) nights of sin. Petyr could still taste her need. 

              Sansa’s eyes widened, her mouth parted. “But the...”

              “Yes, sweetling?” He didn’t so much  _ care _ about his fucking rule right now. Granted, there existed only that hard limit of  _ not actually fucking his underage niece _ that Petyr thought it smart to hold on to. Unless she gave him permission.  _ Do what you want to me _ . Then, well, Petyr might reconsider the boundary between man and monster.

              Sansa’s words caught up with her thoughts. “You… We’re not supposed to…to touch each other?” 

              It came out more as a question rather than an appalled statement of  _ this _ , of how quickly Petyr was willing to shatter that rule. When had he established it? Three days ago? Four? Gods, there was no way it was that recent. At this point, it felt like  _ years _ since he was tempted with his niece, tempted with her deep blue eyes as they came to understood his depravity. Tempted with the lingering scent of citrus clinging to her skin, coating her hair.Tempted with the soft press of her innocent fingers over his cock as she was willing to learn. Tempted with her cunt, warm and wet, whose need tasted as divine as he expected. The nectar of the gods sat between Sansa Stark’s thighs. Even now, Petyr felt high just on the fresh scent of her. Searching for that heady need beneath it. 

              If Sansa was so inclined to keep that rule alive, she would have outright said  _ No _ . Right?

              “You and I both know we’ve long crossed that line, sweetling.” Petyr was twisting his fingers against the tiles beside her thigh. Close enough he could feel the mix of her warm blood and wet skin. Was it his imagination that had her leg moving ever so slightly closer towards his hand? 

              Sansa didn’t respond, mulling over her own thoughts. Her own voices telling her:  _ It’s true, there’s something going on between you and Petyr that you don’t want to admit. Why else let him fuck you? If not with his cock, then with everything else? _

              He knew what her voices were saying because they were whispering the same thing. 

              “Tell me, right now, that you don’t love me, Sansa.” Petyr said it as matter-of-factly as he could. So at odds with the tumult inside him. He watched his fingers trace the curve of her leg against the tiles. “And then you don’t have to prove anything.”

              “I…”

              Her confused silence he took not as an outright  _ No _ . He smiled at that. The fact that he knew and she knew that Sansa should have immediately answered him  _ No, I don’t love you and never will _ . Even then, Petyr was dying to prove her wrong. 

              “I’m not going to fuck you tonight, sweetling,” he added. Was that the new rule now? He was losing track of how often they moved that line further and further back. Yet, every time without fail, they toed right back up to it. “Unless you want me to.”

              Fuck the rule. But without it, imagine how much he would take from Sansa had he not had the barest shred of morality left? Tying Sansa to his bed, naked, and having her whenever and however he wanted? That was one of the  _ kinder _ fantasies.

              Sansa was thinking the same. She was grinding her bottom lip between her teeth. Waiting, knowing that at the least Petyr wouldn’t proceed (no matter how much he fucking wanted to!) unless she let him. This was the point of the thing, wasn’t it? That she had to want him. Even just a little. Even just enough to consider it, no matter how foolish and stupid and who-knew-what-else it was. 

              Her words were as sweet as her first breathy  _ Please _ . “Fine. Prove it that I– That I don’t love you.”

              The way she said it, Petyr had a sense that she needed this more than he did.

_ Oh, I’ll show you alright _ . Petyr wanted to savor every single second of this night. Make it last an eternity. And when that eternity was done, create a new universe, a new world, filled with nothing but him and Sansa and all of the time to prove to each other that this spark, this heat, this pull that brought them together, was as true as the sudden urge to take everything from Sansa. And give her just as much.

              He placed both his hands on her hips, relishing in the softness, the warmth. And the escaped breath from her lips. Gods, they both needed this.

              Petyr opened his mouth, closed it. What else was there to say that couldn’t be said with his touch? 

              So he leaned in and kissed her left shoulder, brushing away wet strands of hair with his nose. His hands dug gently into her thighs, his body pressing up and pinning her arms between his chest and her breasts. Her skin was soft, clean, the lingering scent of his shampoo filling his nostrils. Sansa curled her neck towards him, leaning her head against the tile as Petyr lightly suckled her skin. A little harder, and he was rewarded with a gasp.

              Petyr slowly made his way to the join of her neck, lavishing the same attention as he had her shoulder. From the corner of his eye he saw the faint purple circle of his claim budding on her skin. Petyr was less gentle on her neck, lapping his tongue over her after each bite. He could taste the thrum of her veins.

_ Show me _ , Sansa said with her little whimpers.  _ Show me that I’m wrong. Show me that the ache in my heart or the pounding between my legs is wrong _ .

              Petyr moved up her neck, kissing the corner of her jaw beneath her ear. He inhaled the scent of her hair, bringing one hand up and tangling his fingers in it. He loved her hair, the bounce of it when it was dry, the way that even now he could smell her citrus perfume.

              His lips and teeth trailed down the line of her jaw. Reaching her chin, Petyr traversed the climb up to her lips. They were soft. He placed a single kiss on them, gently tugging her lower lip before placing another. This one was long, solid. He swore he could feel their combined heartbeats in that single connection. Petyr pulled away, only an inch, only enough to look into her half-opened eyes. Enough to hear her quiet whimper at the sudden coldness brushing her lips.

              Sansa looked back at him in dejection. She  _ knew _ she lost, and she knew he knew. 

              That didn’t stop Petyr as he placed his hands on her wrists, tugging her arms away. Revealing a sight he knew he would never tire of. Breasts slick with water, each nipple a pointed pink peak. Petyr lifted her arms above her head, pinning them against the cold tiles, as he latched onto one breast. Rolling the bud around his tongue, sucking it until it grew even harder. He bit it softly, apply pressure enough until Sansa gasped in surprised pleasure. 

              Petyr dutifully did the same to her other breast.

              He finished with another kiss to her lips, smashing his mouth against hers. Hungry this time. Needing more of her than she even knew she had.

              In the cold of their parted lips came a quiet, “Petyr…”

              He smiled at that. Was there such a sweeter sound in this world, or any other worlds? Oh, maybe: the sound of his name cried out as she came.

              “Spread your legs, sweetling.”

              Sansa’s body moved before she could realize it. Petyr had his thigh between hers as her legs clamped around his in modesty. Too late. He lifted his knee up against her opening, rubbing back and forth until Sansa’s body took over again. It wasn’t nearly enough friction, he knew. But she wasn’t going to let his efforts go to waste.

              A new wetness spread over his pants, sticky and glistening. “You’re already wet, aren’t you?”

              Sansa turned her head away. Petyr readjusted his grip on her wrists, collecting both in one hand. Using his freed hand to turn her head back to face him. She would have to face her embarrassment. To face the truth, plain and damning. “Tell me you want me, sweetling. Tell me you want my cock.”

              She gasped. 

              There was an excuse on her lips, but Petyr beat her to it. He repeated himself, “I’m not going to fuck you, sweetling. Not– Not unless you ask me.” Because it was kinder to say than  _ Not tonight _ .

              She had to know, right? That the only thing stopping Petyr from taking her cunt all these nights was the fact that she was young? That the only thing she should expect at midnight on Saturday was the press of his cock against her entrance?

              “I...want… Please.” 

              It was good enough for Petyr.  _ And _ she used her manners. “Anything for you, sweetling.”

              Petyr leaned in and took her mouth as his free hand worked to undo his belt and zipper. He had forgotten how soaking wet his suit was – perhaps better to turn the shower off? Except there was nothing to save at this point. He tugged his pants and underwear down low enough on his thighs to free his cock. Pumping it once, twice. It was already so hard.

              He broke their kiss. “Look at me, sweetling.” Petyr latched his mouth onto the opposite side of her neck, determined to mark her there, too. He’d mark every single inch of her if he could. Let the world – and the gods – know that she belonged to him. Fuck whoever she thought owned her heart. She was  _ wrong _ .

              Petyr stroked his cock as he sucked her neck, listening to her gasps of pleasure and excitement as she watched. He loved those sounds. He pressed his body against hers, feeling the rise and fall of her stomach as he worked himself off. A bead of come squirted out, and he generously wiped it on her skin. To match the stain he left last time.

              Satisfied, he pulled away. Petyr positioned his cock between her thighs, relishing in the little  _ gasp _ escaping Sansa’s lips as she felt him – and not through the pretense of a blanket or clothes. But the real heat of him, hard because of her. Sansa was moving against the length of him, and fuck, Petyr thought he was going to come right then and there.

              “You’re not going to–?” she began, losing her train of thought as she worked her hips faster. Sansa’s eyes closed, focused on the movement, on the feeling.

              “I’m not taking you tonight, sweetling.” Though as he said it, Petyr was having doubts. How easy it would be to angle his legs and push up and in. His cock was fucking  _ begging _ for it. “Unless you want me to.”

              Sansa seemed to consider it in the way her eyes half-opened. They closed again with a small shake of her head. “Not tonight.”

_ But some other night _ , was the underlying meaning in it.

              Petyr joined her movements, thrusting his cock against her opening. Her cunt was so wet, so hot. He felt her arms struggle in his grip, dying to touch him like he did her. If she did, gods help him, Petyr wouldn’t last half a second.

              Each time Petyr pulled back, the head of his cock pressed just a fraction of an inch into her cunt. Ghosting over her aching clit. Sansa gasped at that, Petyr too. He bent his legs slightly each time he pulled back, straightening as he pushed in. Relishing in the spread of her lips around his cock. Back and forth, Sansa’s breaths heavier with each thrust. 

              They weren’t technically fucking. This was technically okay.

              He needed  _ more _ though. She did, too. 

              Petyr let go of her hands, gripping her thighs tightly (tightly enough he hoped she would wake up to ten little claiming marks maring her ivory skin). He wrapped his fingers over, cupping her ass, and sliding her body over his cock. She squealed as Petyr dug his fingers deeper into her skin.

              Sansa’s arms fell down onto his shoulders, wrapping around his neck. Her forehead rested on his shoulder. Petyr felt every hot breath mimicking every thrust. Sansa was rolling her hips over him, against his grip. She was close – he could hear it.

_ More _ . Petyr tore the curtain away, the harsh slide of metal on metal adding to the cacophony of water and their bodies. Sansa startled as he pulled her out of the shower, hands still firmly on her ass. Pressing her against the counter until she understood his meaning. Her ass landed with a wet thump over the granite, legs spread apart, and gods help him, her cunt was so beautiful. Wet and raw from their almost-fucking. 

              He positioned his cock against her opening again, pressing it against her as Sansa rolled her hips against the pressure. She was nearing her climax again in a handful of motions, and Petyr dutifully helped her along, sliding against her hot entrance in tandem with her motions. Would it be violating their rules if he touched her clit? Technically, the only prohibition was actual fucking. So…

              “Fuck!” Sansa cried out as Petyr rubbed his thumb against her clit. She was so close, so close, Petyr hardly had any fun with her nub before her breathing stopped and she came along the length of his cock. Petyr watched it trickle down her cunt, down his cock, as he continued to grind against her.

              “Beautiful…” he murmured, watching as Sansa’s body collapsed against the mirror behind her. He licked his thumb clean, moaning at the taste of her. How could he have forgotten how wonderful she tasted? He’d make sure he would never forget again. Sansa’s breasts heaved, nipples glistening in the light. He took them again, not content in how small they had gotten. Sansa moaned as he gently bit each one.

              Moving away, Petyr gripped her thighs, closing them, her feet angled awkwardly away from her. Sansa opened her eyes enough to see, to figure out what he was doing. 

              He thrust into her, relishing in the tightness created by her thighs, and the welcome warmth and wetness of her cunt. Sansa moaned. She hadn’t come down entirely from her first orgasm, and Petyr was not a  _ monster _ enough to not let her orgasm twice. Or three times. Or however fucking many times she wanted. Even as his body was aching and tired from fucking her in the shower, and now, he wouldn’t stop until she was satisfied. 

              Petyr fucked her thighs. Squeezed her legs tighter until the pressure against his cock made him momentarily stop. Gasping at the feel of her, imagining it was her cunt. Or her hands. Or her mouth. 

              Fucking her without fucking her. It was just as good as the real thing.

              As for her hands and mouth… There was no rule against that, he supposed. 

              Later. He would make sure of it there  _ would _ be a later.

              In and out he went, feeling the beat of Sansa’s cunt against his cock as he moved. Feeling the roll of her hips as she joined him, her own budding release growing. Petyr could feel every beat of his heart thunder throughout his body, all the way down to his fingers wrapped around her legs and his toes squelching in his shoes. His breathing fell into the same quick rhythm. 

              Sansa, meanwhile, lost herself. He didn’t have to look up to see that she was getting close again. He felt it in the way her cunt lips were pressing against him. In the way her hands gripped his wrists, so tight she was going to mar him, too. In the little hitches of her breath that Petyr was learning and memorizing. 

              He bit his lip. Fuck, he was so close. He wasn’t sure if he could hold out any longer-

              “Oh,  _ gods _ , Petyr!” Sansa came.

              “ _ Fuck. _ ” And so did he.

              His come shot up against her stomach and breasts. Petyr pulled back enough that the head of him rested against her folds, letting his need shoot out against her cunt. His head collapsed on her knees. He slowly rolled his hips into her thighs until he felt himself entirely spent.

              They stayed like that for a long while, listening to the other’s breathing. Feeling the other’s heartbeat. The scent of their sin was intoxicating.

              Long seconds passed before Petyr gently pried Sansa’s thighs apart, freeing his cock. Sticky threads of their need bound his cock and her cunt. He watched their shared come trickle down her thigh, onto the counter, off the edge. He would never tire of the sight of his need on her skin. At least, until he could watch his need spill out from her cunt, overflowing with his desire. It would make it that much easier to take her a second time, third. 

              Petyr swiped a finger along her entrance, smiling as Sansa shuddered under his touch. If she asked for another orgasm, who was he to deny her? Even if Petyr was spent and tired. He could never say no to her. Something he hoped Sansa wouldn’t figure out for a while.

              He tasted them, the mixture of their desires strong. Another swipe along her cunt, this finger rising up to Sansa’s lips. Dutifully, she took it. Again. Her face only scrunched a little bit this time, still unused to the taste of sin. 

              “This is what you do to me, sweetling.” It came out in shallow breaths. Petyr stared at his niece as their ragged breathing filled the bathroom. His heart was pounding, smashing against his ribs with each  _ ba-dump _ . 

              Sansa stared up at him, face pink and mouth parted. She was so fucking beautiful like this. Used, spent, all because of him. 

_ Look at yourself _ . 

              He glanced at the mirror behind splayed strands of wet auburn. Petyr saw himself. Wild hair, shallow breaths, eyes darker than a moonless sky deep in the throes of winter. Hovering inches above his niece, their shared desire tainting the air. 

_ What sort of monster fucks his niece like this?  _

              The same very monster staring back at Petyr.

              His phone buzzed, startling Petyr out of his mind. Reality took hold of the wicked thoughts, pulling him free of the idea that maybe Sansa wanted another fuck. Or two. Petyr reluctantly pulled his cock free of her warm body with a groan. Thankfully, he had the wits to toss his phone out of his suit before confronting her in the shower. One logical thought in an ocean of impulse and sin. 

              From Lothor:  _ Done. Usual payment? _

_ Yes _ , he typed. Sent.

              Petyr tried to contain the vile smile that began spreading on his face. Oh, look at what he’d just done! Forcing his niece to tell him – show him – that she loves him and only him. And then at the same time sending that piece of shit to jail for enough days for Petyr to wait out his own sentence. And once midnight strikes on her birthday. They wouldn’t sleep until dawn, if they sleep at all. 

              He looked up from his phone at Sansa, who was staring at him with half-lidded eyes. There was intrigue there, he knew. But Petyr couldn’t tell the truth of it. Not now, at least. Maybe that would be the second half of his birthday present to her? A completed version of  _ this _ . The truth that she loved – should love – him, and not some other piece of shit.

              “You’re welcome, sweetling.”

              Sansa stared at him in confusion, catching on that it was more about an orgasm (or two). And when she remembered  _ why _ she was sitting there, tired and spent and reeking of sin, she closed her legs, covering her face in her hands. 

              His own voice filtered in through the silence of his mind:  _ Prove that you don’t love me _ . 

              Petyr  _ needed _ to hear her answer to his damn stupid question. Only, he wasn’t sure he could handle hearing the wrong answer. What if – after all that – Sansa told him that he was wrong?

              He needed fresh air.

              “Finish up your shower, sweetling.”

              Petyr tore the rest of his clothes off and carefully hung them over the guest bathroom’s shower. Changed into casual clothes before hurtling down the elevator out into the brisk winter night. He passed Oswell with a shake  _ No _ to bring his car around. 

              The city wasn’t dead, but it was so much nicer than during the day. No pretenses. No hiding the sour, shadowy things that existed in the spaces between unlit signs and empty storefronts. 

_ Three more days _ , Petyr thought, closing his eyes. Thankful for the blissful silence in his head after an orgasm. Even with Lothor’s text, and even with the looming trial, and even with everything fucking else – Petyr couldn’t think of anything right now than the mimicked beating of Sansa’s heart. Or the idea of waking her up in a few hours for another fuck. And then waking her up in the morning for another. And then coming home for another. He’d make sure her skin would taste of their sin.

_ Three more days. And then you’ll be all mine. _


	14. sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Hopefully life can Stop for just...enough time to get something written at a decent pace again D:
> 
> And also, here's hoping I didn’t forget something... ]

 

_ Prove that you don’t love me _ .

           Sansa shut her eyes. She smothered the side of her head with a pillow, praying to all the gods that she was dreaming, no matter how real the sheets felt against her skin or how hard she pinched herself. His words echoed again and again, snaking their through infinitesimal cracks of the pillow. And his touch: fingers, hips, lips. Petyr’s kiss was so soft, so full of something Sansa wasn’t sure she even knew. 

           A certain smugness that he knew he won long before those words fell from his lips? A certain determination that (if he  _ was _ wrong), to prove himself right? And a certain...confusion, or maybe it was fear. The same thing that slithered between Sansa’s ribs, even now. The same thing that told her, maybe, just maybe, he was wrong.

           Pipes groaned through the walls as Sansa stared at her closed bedroom door. She could barely make out the hazy outline of it, stripes of grey slashing through the darkness. If she looked hard enough, she could see Petyr. The fading silhouette of him, standing there just beyond her doorway. Had he known where all of that would lead to when he watched her sleep? Had he known the level of his depravity; or, known how easily he could corrupt Sansa? Because  _ good gods _ Sansa wasn’t the sort of girl to crush on someone (much) older than her. Or the sort of girl that let men of indeterminate morals touch her, tease her, make her come. 

           Or the sort of girl that let her body succumb to the feel of it.

           She smashed the pillow harder against her face.

           Gods, Sansa was so tired. It burned to look at those hazy lines of light, trying to make sense of the world. She hadn’t gotten a moment’s sleep since the train back from Highgarden. Had she known the fate that awaited her back here, she should have taken a nap. Except, no, before that. She didn’t get sleep the night before, either. Watching the trees sway outside the window of her bedroom wondering if one of the branches would instead turn into Harry’s arm. Creep close enough to the glass that he could tap on it, open it without a creak. Pull her into the darkness with promises to  _ get what he deserved _ . He wouldn’t be as slow or as kind as Petyr– 

           Sansa smothered her ears.

_ Prove that you don’t love me _ .

           The words echoed against the falling water, against the tiles that were biting cold against her back, against the hammering in her chest. Petyr’s suit was thoroughly soaked, his hair too. The shirt looked like silk, ruined.

           Sansa stared at him. Had he really said that? Had he really said  _ love _ ?

           Hardly a speck of green remained in Petyr’s eyes, so dark they were things of nightmares. But  _ love _ spilled from his lips. And her heart ached as the sound of the word faded away, swallowed by the water.

           She could prove she didn’t. Why not. What had he  _ actually _ done to her to show that she loved him?  _ Love _ was many things – granted, which she learned from cheesy romance movies – but  _ love _ wasn’t something her kind uncle showed her. Taken her out to a nice dinner, maybe a show afterwards or a night dancing, all ending with a heartfelt  _ Goodbye _ with promises to see each other again? Nope. Well, except  _ she _ had been the one to cook Petyr a dinner in a act of good faith. And they  _ did _ see a show, or at least most of it. And  _ dancing _ was one way to describe her little act with the blanket.

           A game. A test of wills. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t remotely close to love. 

           Sansa knew she was only half-lying to herself. 

           “Fine,” she said, finally.

           She hated herself. Hated that even though Sansa  _ knew _ she should tell Petyr to (politely)  _ Fuck off _ , or that maybe she should have taken a lesson from Margaery and threatened him with the police, Sansa...didn’t. She was curious (she told herself). A part of her wanted him to fail, knew that he would.  _ This _ between them was never about love. It was lust, if anything. It was satisfying needs and cravings; not filling in a hole in their chests with the breath and scent of the other.

           She continued, “Prove that I– That I don’t love you.”

           What could he do that he hadn’t done already? Actually take her, despite his promise that he wasn’t going to tonight. He could. Show the truth of the monster that lurked behind mossy eyes. That sat simmering in its shadows beneath a drenched coat, colder than the fingers that moved, wet and warm, now resting atop her hips. Sansa let loose a breath of air, but willed her body to stay flush against the tiles. She couldn’t let him win this easily. Not with a single touch. Sansa’s toes curled against the bottom of the tub, and she tried to focus on the warm water rushing past her feet. On the handle that was digging into her right thigh. On the pounding of the water against the far side of the tub, unaware that showers were the last thing on the mind of the people standing here. 

           She thought of her trip to Highgarden, too. Despite Margaery’s sturdy grip on the fire extinguisher as she warned Harry to get out. Despite the heaviness of the white silk and lace as Sansa stood there, staring at someone else: someone older, wiser, who truly loved the person they were about to marry with her entire heart. Except Sansa stared back at her in all of her seventeen-year-old fears and doubts. 

           “I think it's best if you stay the night,” Olenna had said when she and Margaery made it back home. There was obvious concern in her eyes, her thin fingers clutching Sansa's shoulders. “For your own safety.”

           Sansa didn't argue. She let Margaery take the ring box (“For safe keeping,” she said with a knowing smile. Had her friend known that Sansa’s uncouth guardian was going to go snooping through her things?). She let them pour her a heaping plate of dinner, spices tickling Sansa’s nose. She couldn’t for the life of her say what she had eaten. Only that ever time she glanced across the table at Willas (her betrothed), the corners of his mouth tilted upwards in a sad smile.

           Was that how she looked?

           In the morning, Sansa didn’t admit to her foster family that she eventually cried herself to an almost-sleep. A sort of dull, not awakeness. The back of her eyes stung in the morning, but she made sure her makeup was precise and her smile looked natural before she went out to greet them for breakfast. Their smiles looked natural, too. As natural as their hugs and farewells. 

           “It'll only be a little longer before you're truly family, Sans,” Margaery said, her arm looped through hers as they headed for the train station. Sansa _knew_ she meant it, for good or for bad. Margaery did want her – as a sister, as a friend. Willas, too, as he had waved her _Goodbye_ with a smile promising a kind future. Sansa didn't say _Goodbye_ back, too afraid what might fall from her lips. 

_ That _ was love of its own sort. The love of a family ready with hugs and a warm dinner. 

_ This _ – between her and Petyr – was not that. Not at all. Sansa told herself that, over and over, despite the fact his words echoed between the pounding water and her pounding heart. Despite the fact that it took the rest of her will to keep her hips flat against the wall and not buckling up into his hands.

_ Prove that you don’t love me _ .

           Petyr’s touch was soft, so gentle, it was at odds with the flurry of their  _ lessons _ the nights before. Sansa hated the quiet breath that fell from her lips as he pressed against her a fraction harder. He was warm, his breaths tasted of mint. Sansa was warm, too. Because she wasn’t expecting such tender a touch? Or just because the feel of him was too much – too much! – and he was barely doing anything at all.

           Sansa had been right, when she wanted Petyr to prove something. Only, she suddenly wasn’t sure if she wanted the truth of it.

           Too late to back out now.

           One second passed, two, three. Sansa counted her frantic heartbeats, almost as thundering as the water beyond them. In that time, all Petyr did was  _ stare _ at her. His thumbs barely sweeping over her hip bones, fingertips lighting digging into her skin. His touch was warm, electric. But soft, so soft, and tender. Every single thing that had happened between them warned Sansa that he would be  _ less _ of a human tonight. Which (in its own way) would have been a wonderful distraction from everything that happened in Highgarden. It was good to forget, for a while.

           But he didn’t. 

           Slowly, Petyr leaned in and kissed her shoulder. Her arms were caught between their bodies. Good – there was no way for them to betray her as Sansa let her head loll back against the tiles, allowing Petyr room to conduct his experiment of sorts. His hands remained on her thighs, gripping harder, keeping her there. As if somehow she would have been able to run away. As if her body would  _ let  _ her.

           His teeth bit harder, lips suckling over the hurt, and Sansa (gods damn her) gasped. 

           Petyr trailed his mouth up her neck then, though she swore she could feel a smile there. Sansa dug her toes against the bottom of the tub, willing her legs to keep her upright. It was just as difficult to keep her hands from moving between their pinned bodies. All she had to do was twist her wrists and she could grip the lapels of his jacket to– what? Pull him closer? Sansa shook the idea away, the top of Petyr’s head tickling her jaw.

           He kissed atop her vein. Bit it, licked it, and moved an inch higher before doing the same. Maybe it was her imagination, but Sansa swore she could feel the mimic of his own heart.

           Up and up, kissing just beneath her ear as he finally broke down and lost his fingers in her hair. Sansa hadn’t realized his hands had moved from her hips until then, feeling the pads of his fingers press hard against her scalp. Everything about his actions were soft and gentle except for that. The truth behind the man, and the desire that lay within.

           This close, Sansa could smell Petyr. The mint she tasted in the space between their bodies, but the clean sharpness of his shampoo worn down by the day. There was the lingering saltiness of the King’s Landing air, and maybe a bit of rose? She inhaled the scent of him. Sansa knew she smelled like that, like him. There hadn’t been a  _ reason _ (or a logical one) that had her sneak into his bathroom rather than the guest one. Loneliness, she told herself. She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, standing in the entryway with her purse in one hand and takeout in the other. The apartment was too quiet, she could see the trails of her thoughts as they weaved around her head. So she pretended she wasn’t alone, and sang loud enough the drive the silence away.

           The gods had a sick way of answering her prayers.

           Down her jaw, her chin, Petyr’s nose brushing past her lips before he finally – finally – pressed his against hers. Gone. Hardly a peck, before he moved back in for another. This one could have lasted an hour for all Sansa knew. She was aware only of the hard press of his body against hers, and the soft press of his mouth. His teeth tugged at her lip, the pain of it lancing through her body in a tingly heat.

           It was good. She hated it, him, herself. Petyr was so good at kissing, Sansa couldn’t help the whimper that snuck its way out of her throat.

           He pulled away, just enough to breathe. Sansa didn’t want to open her eyes. Didn’t want to see the triumph in his. Didn’t want to see the way his mouth smiled just at the corners, or maybe how his mouth 

           Except, when Sansa did finally relent and look at him, Petyr didn’t look smug. He looked...lost, confused. He looked how Sansa felt. 

           He looked like he wanted to kiss her again.

           Sansa wanted to let him– 

           She jumped out of bed. As though the sheets and pillow were fiery tendrils threatening to wrap her in a smothering cocoon. Hoping to burn her till there was nothing left of the Sansa that stepped foot in this accursed apartment a week and a half ago. 

           Because, honestly, there wasn’t. Eleven days! That’s all it took for her traitorous body to forget the sort of person her  _ uncle _ Petyr Baelish was. The man who must have married her aunt because of what she could give him instead of love and affection (even alive, Sansa’s mother quietly showed her displeasure at Lysa. Love existed between the sisters because they were of the same blood, but tension cut too close to sever that bond). The man who showered Lysa with enough jewelry and false promises of a future together was not a man who knew what love was. 

           Seven hells, Sansa wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow managed to squeeze Winterfell from her.

           Sansa stared at the tangle of sheets. The blanket lay half on the floor, twisted and warped, the stripes incomprehensible in their path. Her breaths were short. She smashed the palms of her hands against her eyes until she watched the birth of the universe explode behind her eyelids.

           Petyr knew. Not everything (and maybe he didn’t really know the depth of her heart’s affection? She hoped so). But Petyr  _ knew _ enough about the marriage that his actions drove him to  _ that _ . She didn’t have to know that Petyr snooped around when she had been in the shower. Her purse (he hadn’t bothered to put any of it back), and maybe even the old magazine she kept stuffed in the bottom of her suitcase. Margaery insisted she bring it with her. It was the first one they bought when the wedding had been nothing more of a childish fantasy of  _ Oh if you marry my brother then we’ll actually be sisters and we can hang out forever! _ They passed it beneath school papers during study hall, writing notes in the margins. It was a miracle the Madames never caught them. 

           Granted, Sansa also hadn’t expected him home that early. And even if she was alone and uncertain, Sansa wanted something (someone) else. It was a miracle, too, that Margaery had the wits to take the wedding ring from Sansa. If Petyr went so far as to barge in whilst she was showering over faulty deductions, gods knew what Petyr would have done. 

_ Don’t lie _ , Sansa heard a voice say inside her head.  _ You know exactly what he would have done. It’s what he’s wanted to do all this time _ .

           Oh, yes. There should have been a lot of things happening – and not happening – within these walls. 

           It was then Sansa realized how quiet the apartment was. She could hear the quiet thrum of early risers down below, the rumble of buses soon to be cramped elbow-to-elbow. Even her own breathing sounded loud. Petyr was out of his shower, going about his day like he hadn’t just kissed his niece with the idea of turning her heart. Or worse – because the night had been far from over after that first kiss. 

           She would be lying if she said she couldn’t remember anything after it. But the Petyr that made himself known to her in all of his dark desire returned, adamant about proving  _ more _ . Sansa could feel him still: his mouth on her breasts, his thigh between hers, his cock fucking-but-not-quite-fucking her. 

           What if she surprised him as he did her? It was (for lack of a better phrase) her turn in this twisted game of touch-and-tease. Only, Sansa was at a loss. What could she do, truly, that would surprise him?

           Oh... 

           Sansa didn’t entertain the idea. She kicked the blankets before tossing them back onto the bed with her foot.

           Surely the last two weeks have been a dream. If not that, then last night.

           The stripes of grey were lighter as Sansa quietly padded out to the hallway, holding on to the wall with one hand, feeling the solid weight of it against her skin. Minute bumps abraded her fingertips as she moved the length of it. Not a dream. The pads of her fingers lightly scraped against the paint as she walked, one step, two, three, until her socked feet toed the line where the kitchen’s lights ended. 

           “They’re on their way?”

           Sansa flattened herself against the hallway, even though there was no way Petyr could see her. She only assumed he was standing in front of the massive window, overlooking King’s Landing and the Bay beyond. Foolishly, she had hoped Petyr was still getting ready in his own bedroom. ( _ For what end? _ She asked herself. Nothing else could – should – happen between them. And yet, last night was not a dream. The night before, and the night before that...)

           In the quiet between his words, Sansa counted her heartbeats. They sounded too loud, small explosions echoing between her ribs, surely he heard her. Felt her presence as if by some cruel twist of fate – one worse than the one that stole her parents from her, and her siblings from each other – Petyr just  _ knew  _ Sansa. Knew all of the things that made her swoon, that made her weak, that made her want him despite herself. As if that evening when the elevator doors first slid open in front of her and Sansa spied her uncle was merely the beginning of it all. That they – cruel twist of fate or not – were designed for each other. A word passed through her mind but Sansa killed it with a shake of her head. 

           No. Not ever.

           Petyr spoke again, cutting through that horrid idea. “I honestly don’t care at this point. If you’re the go-between that’s fine, just let me know what he promised you.” A few seconds of silence before Petyr let loose a chuckle through his nose. “That’s easy enough.”

           Sansa carefully, quietly, scooted towards the edge of the hall. Peering over she saw him. His silhouette dark against the massive window. Specks of lights lit up the buildings below like a night sky fallen on the earth. Far beyond, the sun was beginning to crest above the water.

           Petyr had his back to her, but Sansa could see his reflection. He stared down at King’s Landing, expression blank. Sansa couldn’t help imagine that he was looking over his kingdom, a monarch assessing his people. She looked back at his face, and wondered if it was a trick of the light that had his brows furrowed. What was the monarch thinking? About the levels of stores deep in his castle, and whether they would survive the oncoming storm? About a war, and if peace was the best route to keeping his head atop his shoulders?

           In that imagination, did that make Sansa his guest, or his captive?

           “I don't–" The person on the other end interrupted Petyr. He clicked his tongue. “If that’s what you want to do, fine. I’ll find another blonde for for Brune. Two.”

           Petyr rolled his neck, his shoulders. He had one foot against the window, the shine glistening in the wee morning light. His free hand wrapped around the mullion. Almost as tightly as he wrapped around her thighs and grinded his cock against her opening– 

           “Honestly? Be creative. I don’t quite care at this point what happens, so long as he’s out of my hair for a while.” Sansa heard a smile in the way Petyr said those words. She saw the shadowed thing in his reflection, and the sight of it sent cold shivers through her. As though he were sentencing  _ her _ to death. 

           “Good, good. I’ll meet with you before work to give you your share. Same place in –” he looked at his watch, "–half an hour?” 

           Petyr hung up without a  _ goodbye _ . A business partner, then, except Sansa met (or at least saw) the sorts of people that worked at Lannister & Baratheon. She couldn’t see any of them being so brusque, especially if they were anything like that intern. Olyvar, that was his name. Even Myranda, with her narrowing eyes and bright lipstick, wasn’t someone Sansa imagined letting Petyr talk like that.

           Yet again, if she didn’t  _ know _ Petyr – the things he made her do under the guise of  _ learning _ , even if Sansa  _ did _ enjoy them – she might have thought him to be incapable of those sorts of things, too. He might have been any other man in a suit, lost in the throng of King’s Landing. Any other man determined to climb, one rung after another, unsatisfied until he sat solely at the top.

           Sansa suddenly realized Petyr was  _ someone _ . He knew people, he did things. The way he’d carefully avoided her questions anytime the topic of work came up. To protect her, or himself?

           Petyr pocketed his phone and stared out the window. His thumb brushed over the side of the mullion. Was he imagining it was her thigh, too? Did he get an ounce of sleep, or did he lie in his bed content with the not-quite-truth he pulled from Sansa last night?

           His reflection wasn’t smiling. 

           Something pulled her forward, her feet quiet. Surely Petyr would have saw her, felt her, by now. But he was lost in a world outside of either this apartment or King’s Landing. His thumb didn’t stop moving. 

           Sansa didn’t, either, until her arms wrapped around Petyr from behind.

           Against her, Petyr froze. 

           She closed her eyes. It wasn’t Petyr she was hugging. Or Willas. Or Harry. Or any of the few celebrities she crushed on as a teenager. The boys that stammered out  _ Do you want to be my girlfriend _ back in Highgarden, or Winterfell. 

           A faceless shape. Limbs made of darkness, eyes burning. It should have felt cold, but he was warm. And he smelled clean.

           Sansa didn’t look up at the face. Afraid who would be looking back at her. The truth of the man who held her heart. Sansa hugged tighter, wondering (hoping) that the tendrils of darkness would wrap around her body, too, and suck her in until she was hardly a person.

           The jacket was soft against her face, she could practically feel each of the hundreds of threads that caressed her skin. Worse, beneath it Sansa could feel the muscles of his back shiver beneath her hug.

           There was another sentence that echoed in Sansa’s head, one that she knew had more weight behind it than the orgasm she experience.

_ You’re welcome, sweetling _ .

           For what? She mulled it over with as much care as she mulled over the first press of his lips to hers. Petyr would have been the sort of person to say that after having her come (twice, she remembered). But it was the way Petyr looked at her with a shadowed gaze so different than the one that greeted her as he pulled the curtain aside. And the fact that he hurtled out of the bathroom and the apartment shortly after, leaving Sansa to  _ finish her shower _ (which she didn’t do, only turned off the water and managed to slide inside her bed). There  _ was _ more to Petyr, to his frantic plea to hear her heart’s affection.

           She didn’t know what to say, or why. But Sansa wasn’t one to forget her manners. “Thank you.” One day, she knew she would understand the weight of her reply. 

           Muffled against his coat, she wasn’t even sure if Petyr heard her. Maybe this was her finally sleeping. Maybe this was as unreal and as impossible as the limits they tested last night; a different sort of limit, one so intimate that it felt at odds with the soreness in her body.

           She felt his body stiffen at her words. Petyr stepped forward (whatever he could with the window in front of him), and maneuvered himself so Sansa was hugging his front. She still had her eyes closed.

           “For what, Sansa?”

           His head was tilted slightly as she looked at him. The smile – crooked, leaning on one side of his mouth – was back.

           Sansa shook her head. 

           Petyr seemed to notice her arms were still wrapped around him just then. He placed his hands on her arms, keeping her in place. “How about you thank me with a kiss, sweetling?”

           Her shock was unwarranted, because seven hells Petyr had said – done – worse. 

           Sansa loosened her grip around him as much as he could with his hands on her arms. She leaned in and placed as chaste a kiss as she could to his cheek. Like a daughter might her father.

           She hadn’t time to move back before Petyr grabbed her chin with his fingers, pulling her head back just enough that she saw the tops of her cheeks. She gasped. They were practically the same height, but Sansa couldn’t help but feel small in his grasp. The way the soft morning light, turning gold and blue, highlighted the heavy grey at Petyr’s temples. Shadowing the creases around his eyes. Hollowing out the sockets until – if she squinted hard enough – only pitch darkness stared back at her.

           Petyr gripped her chin that much tighter. “That’s not what I meant.” His smile widened, to say silently  _ And you know exactly what I meant, too _ .

           For some reason, Sansa thought maybe last night was a fever dream to Petyr. That he might  _ regret _ what he made her do. Why else would he have rushed out after with nothing but a  _ Finish your shower _ ? After that kiss? After the way he touched her, rutted against her – Petyr found that last shred of humanity and decency and hated how little of it he had left.

           Evidently not.

           Sansa could have backed away, but she didn’t. That never was the sort of game she and Petyr played. Always one-upping the other. Always trying to prove that the other was the one so desperate for a touch, a taste, a kiss.

_ Prove that you don’t love me _ .

           Sansa leaned forward, Petyr letting go of her chin then. She hovered her lips over his, tasting the sharp mint of his breath. And planted a quick, chaste kiss to his lips, pulling away before his hands had the chance to tangle in her hair. She felt them move, always eager. 

           Petyr opened his eyes and Sansa saw disappointment there at her  _ excuse _ of a kiss. His lips pursed to match. “Better. Maybe I should focus on that, tonight.” His hands did find their way to her hair, looping a thread around a finger and pulling just hard enough to hurt. “Or, maybe I could be so kind to teach you how to kiss my cock? Would you like that, sweetling?”

           She knew her face was red (redder now). So much for this being her turn at their game. 

           Unless... “Just kissing it?” Sansa unwrapped her arms completely from him. She kept her gaze on his, never once breaking contact as she slithered her right hand down to the front of his pants. Squeezing just enough until she could feel his cock throb. “And here I thought you wanted me to do more with it?”

           Petyr’s smile was too devilish to be human. He rolled his hips beneath her hand. And she felt… Well, Sansa didn’t want to think about the things she was feeling. Not when they were such a mix of intrigue and disgust and desire.

           “I thought I’ve told you. You should be careful about teasing a man, sweetling.” He leaned in, and was not at all subtle about inhaling her scent. “He might take you up on your offer if you’re not careful.”

           Sansa pulled her hand away, but Petyr’s smile remained. His own hands were too lost in the feel of her hair (which must look atrocious, she hadn’t even combed her fingers through it). 

_ He’s...confident _ , she thought, watching the buildings’ silhouettes lighten. Specks of seagulls soared low in the distance.  _ He was sure of himself last night, too _ .

           When he caged her in with a foolhardy excuse to prove something Sansa didn’t even know existed. When he first pressed his lips against her, once, twice, knowing exactly what to do. When he rubbed his cock against her entrance, careful  _ just enough _ that he didn’t actually fuck her. All in a vain attempt to get Sansa to admit she didn’t love Harry.

           Except it wasn’t Harry, it was never Harry.

           What  _ if _ Petyr somehow knew about Willas? Him, and Margaery, and all of the Tyrells who welcomed her after Lysa kicked her out with barely enough money for a train ticket. Perhaps it was the assumption of family that made Willas (and by extension Loras, though his preferences never strayed towards Sansa) an obvious check off of the list of men she had her eyes set on. Oh, the irony there – when in fact, something far less familial and far less pure had spawned and sparked and raged between her and Petyr (an “uncle”) in too short a time. 

           Sansa almost laughed. 

           Only a few seconds had passed, and when Sansa didn’t say anything back, Petyr added, “I  _ care _ about you, Sansa. I hope you know that.”

           She didn’t respond, wasn’t sure how to. There were hardly enough days for Petyr to  _ now _ start acting like a father to her. Especially not when he did  _ that _ to her last night. Especially not when he wanted to do  _ so much more _ . She knew. She  _ knew _ , truly, even without the shadows outlining his face. Even before they first touched each other. It was so plainly obvious, Sansa wondered why she hadn’t run out of the apartment after her first step in it.

           So, she nodded. Not sure what would spill from her mouth should she open it. The sort of  _ care _ Petyr showed her was wrong on levels even Sansa wasn’t aware of. The sort of  _ care _ that Sansa needed was that of a father. An actual father. Someone who loved her without expecting anything in return. She had someone like that, once.

           Sansa was fourteen when she opened the door not to her parents returning from a business trip but to the police. She was fourteen when she sat watching her aunt twirl that garrish ring around her finger, toy with the strings of jewels around her throat. Lavish gifts anyone would think  _ meant something _ . Empty. Tokens of affection rather than actual affection. Petyr didn’t care as much as aunt Lysa didn’t care about Sansa, or Robb or Arya or Bran or Rickon.

           At least, Petyr didn’t care until he could take something from her, three years later.

           “Goodbye, Petyr.” Strong, she was glad her voice managed that. Carefully weaving herself out of Petyr’s grip, who let her hair go without a fight. She turned to the kitchen, fumbling through the fridge in a vain attempt to say  _ Please go, please don’t confuse me _ .

           “I’ll see you tonight, Sansa.”

           The way he said it told Sansa exactly what he expected. She wished her legs didn’t shake in anticipation.

           Her skin was thoroughly chilled by the time the elevator’s rumbling ceased. His work came first. What was it Kella had said? He was a big-shot lawyer who didn’t so much care for Lysa other than the fact that a married man had a better reputation than an unmarried one (a prospect Sansa had thought of too much, especially how it worked opposite for women). Work came first, and whatever case must be so important that he left without entertaining more than a kiss. Not like Sansa was jumping at the prospect of, well, jumping him before work.

           At least she had a day to figure out...something.

           Blinking back into reality, Sansa closed the door to the fridge. She didn’t even see what was in it.

           Sansa felt her phone vibrating. Looking at the sliver of gold on the horizon, at the time on the microwave, Sansa wondered who on earth would be calling her at this hour. Wrong number probably. Unless it was Margaery? To say that things escalated and they needed to get married asap? Even though there three days left before Sansa was free to say  _ I do _ of her own volition. Because what being here under Petyr’s care meant that Sansa couldn’t confess before the eyes of the gods who she wanted to devote the rest of her life to without parental consent. A law from the days of old when teens would run away and elope. And though she thought maybe ‘parental consent’ would come from Olenna (as grumpy as she was, still eager to welcome Sansa into the family),  _ Lysa _ was her official guardian. Or, by extension, living partner was.

           The fact that before the eyes of the law, Sansa technically  _ was _ Petyr’s sat sour in her stomach

           The phone buzzed again. Not a wrong number then? A wisp of hope wished it was Arya or Bran or Rickon, letting her know that they were going to pick her up and they were going to be a family again. Goodbye marriage and goodbye Petyr. 

           It wasn’t. The number was blocked – on her end – though the digits looked familiar. 

           The voice was muffled. A butt dial? Sansa didn’t know that was still a thing.  _ Telemarketer, then _ , she thought, answering with a  _ No thanks _ already on her lips.

           “You bitch.”

           She shoved the phone away from her face.  _ Definitely _ a wrong number. Her finger hovered over the  _ end call _ button – a butt dial, or at least someone who realized he’d gotten the wrong number from a date. Margaery did that a lot with the people she didn’t find interesting after a conversation. Better to give them a number to shut them up than have them do something rash or spiteful. 

           Too bad curiosity got the best of Sansa. What else was she to do at almost six in the morning?

           She brought the phone back to her ear, straining to hear through the silence. A quick glance at the screen said the person hadn’t hung up yet. One more minute of snooping (it wasn’t snooping if they called her, she reasoned. Besides, Sansa didn’t even know who they were, or if they even knew their phone was on). 

           There was a bit of fuzzy static, some of which Sansa wondered was even real or her brain trying to make sense of the silence on the other end. Maybe some rustling of clothes, some footsteps. Whether the mysterious phone was in a pocket or not, it was hard to tell. 

_ I guess it is just a butt dial _ . Even if Sansa wanted to know what was going on. She pulled her phone back again-

           “What the  _ fuck  _ is wrong with redheads!?”

           -loud enough to startle Sansa.

           She knew that voice. It was  _ Harry _ .

           Sansa mashed the volume up, pressing her phone against her cheek until it would leave a square imprint in her skin. She didn’t care. After the stunt he pulled in Hastwyck Bridal two days ago, this was the least she could do to get back at him. Although, not having to see or deal with him would be ideal. A flurry in her stomach warned that wasn’t going to happen. Sansa could still feel the fury of his gaze on her. As he gripped the edge of the dress.

           He wasn’t talking  _ to _ her, that was obvious. Another voice – too muffled by the distance? or whatever fabric must be covering the mouthpiece – said something back. 

           “I thought you were fucking clean? You fucking  _ bitch _ !”

           Seemed as though Harrold Hardyng had a single way with words to women who didn’t do as he expected. Sansa immediately felt sorry for whoever the unlucky girl was sharing his bed at – she checked the microwave – six-oh-three in the morning. On a Wednesday. Old Gods and New, help that woman.

           The woman was yelling now, too. “I am! I  _ swears _ I didn’t bring that with me! I never fucking do shit or drink when I’m on the job!”

           “Fucking liar!”

           A slap – loud enough Sansa recoiled herself – echoed in her ear.

           Then a thud, followed by a pained gasp from the woman. Sansa could hear her breaths; the woman must have fallen somewhere near the phone.

           A few seconds of silence came before a weird  _ thwack _ , like something hitting skin. Nothing painful, if the surprised gasp was anything to go by. “What’s…?”

           “What  _ the fuck _ do you think it is?” Harry responded. 

           “It’s–"

           “Fucking  _ coke _ . You fucking dirty piece of shit slut.” 

           Sansa suddenly wished she hung up three seconds earlier, before the first  _ bitch _ . She wished, too, she had the ability to hang up right now. Because the woman’s cries were too painful to listen to, half of them lost beneath the string of swears. Sansa slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. 

           “ _ Please! _ ” the woman managed. Her breath sounded ragged.

           Sansa fumbled through the drawers in the kitchen, looking for a phone to call the police with. She already looked on top all of the counters, in the living room and even treading into Petyr’s bedroom. Nothing. Sansa could hang up and call them on her own, but she didn’t feel comfortable leaving the woman alone. Even if the woman didn’t know someone was listening in. 

           “Harrold Hardyng!” Came a gruff voice.

           Harry let loose every swear through gritted teeth, his favorite  _ fuck _ . Sansa imagined him turning on the woman, grabbing her by the collar (assuming she was clothed). “What the  _ fuck _ ! You called the fucking cops on me?”

           Again the new voice: “Hardyng! Open the door! We know you’re in there.”

           Loud banging. Cops, pounding on his door. 

           Harry: “What the  _ fuck _ !?”

           The woman: “It wasn’t me! My phone’s at home! I swears! I  _ swears _ !”

           Her swears didn’t keep Harry from hitting her again – the sound too clear, too loud. The woman didn’t say anything after a thud. There was loud rustling through the line. Sansa held her breath.

           “Then the fuck is this? You fucking lying whore piece of shit!”

           There was one last slap and cry before a louder  _ whack _ echoed through the earpiece. Sansa recoiled at the sound, but she couldn’t let loose her grip on her phone. 

           There was grunting and shuffling and yelling. Harry (Sansa assumed) struggled against the cops. There were at least three of them from the heavy stomp of their boots. 

           “Get the fuck of’fa me!” He shouted, along with the same trite string of  _ fuck _ ’s and grunts.

           “What’s that?” one of the cops said, ignoring Harry.

           “Looks like coke, sir. A pound at least.”

           “ _ Those aren’t mine _ !”

           A  _ whack _ , and Harry’s string of  _ fucks _ died down.

           “You’ve been accused of additional charges, Mr Hardyng,” the first officer continued, as though Harry didn’t say anything. And as though one of them hadn’t hit him to shut him up. “Though from the quantity of coke, I don’t think we’ll need those.”

           “It’s that fucking  _ whore _ !” Harry screamed. Groaned, as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “I’ve never seen those drugs before, I  _ swear _ . They aren’t mine!”

           “Ma’am,” the officer said. “Are you alright?”

           She didn’t say anything, but Sansa could only imagine the state she was in. Far from  _ alright _ . He continued his questions with one Sansa hadn’t expected: “Ma’am, how old are you?”

           Her voice was weak, strained. Sansa saw a bloodied face with tears and snot breaking through the crimson. “Sev-seventeen...sir…”

           “No she’s-!”

           Someone hit him.

           “Harrold Hardyng,” the officer said, standing up with a grunt. “I hope you don’t mind a trip to the station this morning. Coke’s one thing – a big thing, I should say, should’ve stuck with weed. But assaulting and fucking a minor?” He tsked.

           “The drugs aren’t fucking mine, and she’s not fucking–"

           “Someone shut him up?”

           One final  _ thwack _ and the room when quiet. 

           When the fading sirens faded into silence, Sansa heard heavy footsteps. One of the cops hadn’t left to take Harry back to the station? It sounded like it. “Ma’am, are you alright?” 

           The woman didn’t say anything, shrugging or nodding or sitting there with a fresh bruise over her eye? They were all possible. The cop replied to whatever she did, “I hope it doesn’t hurt business.”

           “I’ve had worse.” The woman groaned, bones popping as she must’ve stretched. “You did good.”

           “You too.”

           The man harrumphed. “Does this kid got any beer?”

           “Pretty shitty of you to arrest him and take his stuff.”

           He barked a laugh. Sansa imagined him shrugging as he rifled through the fridge. He said something but it was lost in the distance.

           “No, I'll be meeting him tonight. It’s been a while since he asked me a favor.”

           Another shrug from the man. “Who knows what's going on in his mind. But a job’s a job, and one as easy as this.”

           “Easy for you to say. That kid knows how to throw a punch, but that’s about it.” She hissed. “Blonde?”

           “ _ And  _ brunette _. _ ” There was a smile there. 

           Sansa thought she heard the  _ crack  _ and  _ fizz _ of another beer opening. 

           “Don’t forget,” the cop said, but the  _ what _ was left to Sansa’s imagination. 

_Beep beep beep_ _beep–_

           It was monotone and constant, filling Sansa’s ear. She listened to it for a minute, two, not entirely convinced the line was cut, or what she heard actually happened. The beeping matched her heart, or maybe it was the other way around. She could feel it pounding through her veins.

           Finally, Sansa hung up.

           She was...happy? No, not that. Relieved, maybe.  _ Something _ , because gods knew what Harry might have done that night of her date. She sent a prayer to the gods that he sulked away at her excuse. One more for the woman, who (regardless of her motivations) would recover from his hits. And another prayer that nothing  _ worse  _ happened at Hastwyck’s. 

           Suddenly Sansa wasn’t feeling very hungry. She grabbed an apple regardless, washing it first before taking a small bite. She tossed it between her hands more than she ate it, for want of something to keep her hands occupied. It was firm, cool to the touch. She spun the stem around and around and around before it cleanly snapped off. 

           Reluctantly, Sansa took another bite. 

           It was Wednesday. Kella was supposed to swing by today. Sansa hadn’t decided if that was a good thing or not. Sansa had a feeling after the sudden flurry of texts from the housekeeper yesterday that she didn’t keep her word about keeping Sansa’s location a secret. Sansa felt that she had to tell  _ someone _ for safety, and the housekeeper was kind enough the few times they talked. And they shared enough secrets between them. 

           Evidently, Petyr’s hold on her was tougher than Sansa thought.

           Another bite. The crunch echoed through the quiet apartment.

           She didn’t want to stay in here today, but she had no plans. Not until the weekend – and even  _ that _ , Sansa was dreading. Especially since she had a feeling – one with plenty of certainty followed by evidence – that her uncle was going to give her another gift. Or, maybe he was going to take a gift from her. 

           And if she was being honest, Sansa didn’t want to go outside because she was afraid. Despite what she just accidentally listened to, Sana couldn’t shake the idea that Harry was making his way to her right now. Jumped the cops, sneaking through alleys with the plan of giving another  _ redhead bitch _ a piece of his mind. She’d seen enough movies to know the deranged sort of fury that overtook a man scorned. Even if Harry didn’t know Petyr’s address. Even if Harry didn’t know she was back in King’s Landing (was he still in Highgarden, she wondered. Or had he gone back to the Vale for school?) It was paranoia, Sansa knew, but she didn’t care. She hated the look in his eyes as he stared up at her. She hated that a small part of her thought she  _ deserved _ something like that after all of the shit she’s put people through. The Tyrells, for forcing them to love her. Willas, for loving her with as much love as he could, though it was hardly an ounce no matter how many smiles he passed her. Petyr, for...for getting under her skin, and never once telling him the truth of her arrangement.

           And why should she? She was promised long before she stepped foot in King’s Landing. She was promised to a family that  _ wanted _ her. Even if they wanted her for something she couldn’t comprehend, even if they wanted her just to call Winterfell theirs (despite them hating cold weather let alone snow); the Tyrells were the closest thing Sansa had to family and love. Petyr – for all his smooth talking and knowing fingers – couldn’t make up three years’ worth of love.

           No. He couldn’t, and Sansa wouldn’t let him.

           Another bite of the apple. It tasted flat. Sansa found herself in the study, only because it was the only room where she and Petyr hadn’t…

           She shook her head.

           The boxes were still neatly stacked, though only about half of them remained. Sansa held the apple in her mouth as she casually flipped open the lids, curious what was taken and what wasn’t. If she was being honest, she hadn’t been paying much attention to what was in the boxes the last time she helped Kella out. Mostly mundane things: clothes and books and knick-knacks. Lysa’s and Robert’s things, neatly packed and shipped away. 

           Sansa wondered if that would be her in a few days’ time, once Petyr took the last bit of her innocence. Was that what she was? A  _ thing _ to be conquered. A game to be won after long touch-and-go strategies and plots. 

           She didn’t want to think of her not-quite-relationship with Petyr that way. But, she knew she should. It would make it easier to say goodbye on Saturday.

           Back to the boxes. Most of what had been Lysa’s was gone, Sansa realized. There had been boxes upon boxes of clothes (the entire left wall had been just her wardrobe.  _ Where _ she kept the clothes, Sansa could only fathom a guess). Jewelry, too, gaudy pieces that might have all been costume jewelry save for the way they sparkled in the light. There had been an entire box with cheesy romance novels, even cheesier (and raunchier, from the covers) than the ones Sansa snuck reads of during study hall. Lysa’s makeup and products was in one box that was gone, too. 

           In fact, there were hardly any personal things of Petyr’s late wife left.

           And Winterfell? Sansa slowly spun around, taking in the state of the study. Was Winterfell piled with boxes, too? All of the things they couldn’t take with them when they were shipped off to Lysa?

           Sansa hadn’t been back home (her wolf’s home) since the day they pulled her and her siblings away. Once she was married, yes, she was going back. Because once she was married – though a Rose she would be – Winterfell and all its property was legally hers. 

           Her arm whacked a box over, the top loose. Its contents spilled all over the floor in a cascading roar.

           “Shit.”

           Sansa set her partially eaten apple on the desk, rubbing her elbow as she assessed the mess. Thank the gods the box wasn’t filled with glass baubles or anything expensive. Even if Petyr was (essentially) throwing everything that belonged to his old family out, any sane person would be pissed. 

           And how would he punish Sansa about her misstep?

           She bent down, shuffling what she could into a pile. More importantly, ignoring the call of those wicked thoughts in her head. They seemed to multiply each day. Gods knew the one that whispered about the lesson to be had atop the huge desk.

           In her hands were Robert’s things.

           She recognized most of it from her first time snooping through the boxes. Boyish things: action figures of knights whose silvered armor was worn dull by use; superheroes, too, though none Sansa could name; a well-worn stuffed rabbit, one ear unceremoniously sewn over and over again, practically a pancake. Folded sheet set with the same superheroes striking heroic poses. Books about knights and brave little boys. 

           A heavy woolen blanket the color of the morning sky, a shining flock of falcons soaring through it, sat beneath the rest of it. Its once-neat edges crumpled. It was the softest thing Sansa felt, smelling of morning breezes and lilacs. Softer even than the blanket Petyr dry-fucked her over.

           Her hand jerked, throwing the blanket against the wall. 

_ Gods _ . This was it, then, Sansa decided. She  _ needed _ to get out of this apartment. Not today, but as soon as possible. She made a note to check when the first train to Highgarden was on Saturday, and hoped whatever wicked gift Petyr had planned was long after she was well on her way back home. Well on her way to final preparations for her own wedding.

           Because here, trapped in this apartment, Sansa knew exactly where the rest of her nights would go.

           Could she ask Kella for help? No, probably not. The last time Sansa had been desperate, and she had been hiding from a failed date rather than Petyr. Unless she told the housekeeper  _ what _ her uncle spent his nights doing? Kella had to know all the unsavory things that went on in this apartment, regardless what she said she knew. Kella had to have seen worse, too. 

           The problem was, Sansa couldn’t say for sure how the housekeeper would respond to  _ Oh, and by the way, my uncle has been almost-fucking me since I got here two weeks ago _ . 

           Back to Highgarden? Except since she was still a minor, and Petyr still was her legal guardian, he could order them to give her back. And after the half-conversation she walked in on...Sansa had a feeling Petyr knew how to be convincing.

           Where else, then? There weren’t other friends, none of which would be willing to hide her away for a few days.  _ Arya would know how to hide _ , Sansa thought to herself bitterly. And:  _ I hope she’s found a nice family to take her in _ .

           She had time, little of it, but enough to figure out what to do. 

           Sansa found a wayward knight that rolled to the other side of the room, and another book half-tucked beneath the desk. She tossed it all back into the box. Beneath the freshly-crumpled falcon blanket lay bottles of pills. 

           She paused. Sansa knew her cousin Robert was – or  _ had been _ – prone to sickness. Her mother didn’t keep in touch with Lysa, but what they knew of their cousin was he was sick. So sick, he had to be homeschooled because he would shake and faint and collapse. Maybe that was part of Kella’s job, taking care of Robert. She would need to ask Kella when she came in.

_ These must be his _ . Sansa picked them up. She remembered the transparent orange when she first peeked in the box, thinking them all empty. But they weren’t. 

           Sansa twirled the bottle in her hands. It rattled, heavily – if the seal hadn’t been broken, Sansa would have thought it brand new. One of his drugs, among a slew of other bottles and painkillers. Each of them with a different name she didn’t even try to pronounce. But the label said they were for seizures, for epilepsy, for fainting, for weak blood, for sleep.

           Sansa saw him once, when both he and her had been small. He fainted then, too, when Robb and Arya tried to get him to play hide and seek. Robert hid in the bushes, and got scared when a squirrel rustled past that he passed out in them. Arya only found him because she had been peaking as she counted. They thought he died, his body still, his lips chapped and purple.

           Lysa never brought him back to Winterfell because of that. Well, that and the fact each time Cat announced her sister (and by extension, son and husband) were coming to visit, Robert always fell ill. Lysa never dared tempt the gods to bring Robert when he was sick, and so he stayed cooped up in his home. 

           And now he was dead.

           And hardly a week later, Olenna pulled Sansa aside with a solemn expression. “Your aunt had a heart attack last night. I’m afraid she didn’t make it.” 

           That had been nearly five months ago.

           Sansa gathered the rest of the bottles. She should probably throw them out – one of them was nearly full and dated exactly a year ago – but that would admit she was snooping. Maybe she could casually bring it up to Kella, too. Ask again about how much Petyr liked his late wife and son. Ask how much Petyr was dedicated to his work, and what  _ exactly _ that work entailed. Along with the answer to a question Sansa never considered:  _ how did my cousin die? _

           It was paranoia maybe (definitely) that had Sansa fishing out her phone from her back pocket. It was still warm from the butt dial.

           “Hello?” The voice on the other end was uncertain.

           Sansa half wanted to toss her phone out the window. “Hi. Um. Hi Willas.”

           She heard a smile spread over his lips. “Oh! It  _ is _ you! Bit early, don’t you think?”

           She couldn’t help but smile at him. He sounded so...happy. What horrible person was Sansa if she took away that from him? “No, it’s me, hi. Wait, what are  _ you _ doing up this early?”

           Willas pursed his lips. “Work. Be glad you still have some time before you get to deal with the  _ fun _ of late nights and early mornings.”

           Well, Sansa  _ did _ have a couple of those these past days. Nothing at all what Willas was referring to, and nothing at all that Sansa was willing to sharing with her betrothed three days before her wedding at six-thirty in the morning. “Yeah.”

           “This isn’t about the, um,  _ thing _ from Monday, is it?”

           Sansa shook her head. No, there wasn’t anything between them that could warrant an angry or paranoid call. At least from Sansa’s end. She wondered (and not for the first time) if Willas would still love her if she admitted the things she’d done. The date with Harry (and Harry touching her, kissing her) was one thing. The following “dates” with her uncle, however.

           Sansa wasn’t  _ that _ desperate to call off the wedding. 

           “No, Monday was great. It was, nice seeing you again.”

           “Oh, good.” She pictured Willas wiping away imagined sweat from his brow, that smile still playing with his lips. “And here I was worried you might want to cancel our plans after that.”

_ Yes, I do, but not because of what I’ve done. Besides, I wouldn’t admit that to you _ . Even if, somewhere, Sansa knew she should have. Weeks ago, months ago. There were fewer days left until the wedding than she had fingers gripped over her phone. So close, too close. “No, it’s not that.” She forced her smile wider as she said, “I promise.” 

           “Good, good. Can you give me a second?”

           “Sure.”

           There was a rough noise on the other line, and a few muffled  _ good morning _ ’s. Willas must be wheeling himself to an empty conference room, suspecting there was more to this impromptu call from his fiancee (that word made her shiver). Especially since this was maybe the second time in all of their hushed engagement that Sansa  _ did _ call him. It was mostly Margaery who acted the go-between. He was too often busy studying to pass his exams, and more recently too busy making a good impression in his new job. Willas made mention that he worked for a different firm before this one. But when that one merged to a larger one through complicated business things Sansa wasn’t sure about, Willas up and left.

           “What’s wrong, Sansa?” he finally said, his voice startling her back to reality. It sounded like the smile was finally gone. He’d been playing someone, she realized. Willas hadn’t said her name yet until now. 

           On instinct was a  _ Nothing _ , on the very edge of her lips. She pushed it aside. “I was just...wondering… How legal  _ are _ bribes?”

           That threw him off. “Legal?”

           “I mean–" she cut him off, "–hypothetically. If someone had, um, offered someone money to do something. And maybe the thing they had to do was, uh, well, led someone who was innocent to go to prison…”

           “Why? Sansa, has someone offered you something illegal?”

           “No!” Her response was too quick, she knew. “No. I  _ promise _ it’s not me.”

           Willas mulled on it for a few seconds. “I mean,  _ technically _ it’s...not legal. A lot of it depends on the circumstances and how people manage to word it to sound like a gift rather than a bribe. The problem is it’s so commonplace, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who hasn’t been bribed or who hasn’t bribed someone else.”

           “So, what are you saying, all lawyers have done illegal stuff?”

           “Well, I’d like to think not  _ all  _ of them.”

           Sansa played with the cap of the bottle in her hand. “What about you?”

           “Are you asking if I’ve bribed anyone?” He paused, and the tone of his voice made Sansa worry that Willas was about to reveal something at least as bad as her own secrets. “I haven’t really had the chance yet. My boss doesn't let me out of the office much. Partly because of the stairs. But, uh, it's mostly research, the things I do right now. Checking codes and laws, going through paperwork. The  _ boring _ stuff.” He let loose a little laugh, but Sansa heard something in it.  _ He's lying _ , her brain told her, though he’s never lied to her before. Seven hells, he’s never properly  _ kissed _ her before. 

           Willas added, “Besides, harder to keep bribes a secret when I need to wheel around through shady alleys. Too conspicuous.” 

           Sansa laughed for his sake, to let him know that she didn’t think terribly of him. Which she didn’t. He never mistreated her let alone his books. Willas even made mention that he left the previous firm after the merger (despite being there for only a year) because he didn’t like the way they do things.

           Petyr, on the other hand...

           It was worth a shot. “What do you know of my uncle?”

           “Your uncle?” Willas perked at this sudden line of questioning. “Why, is he doing something he shouldn’t be?”

           The way he asked it sent an icy spear through Sansa’s heart.  _ He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know _ . “No. I mean, he doesn’t talk about work. It’s  _ boring _ , and all that.”

           Willas let out a  _ Hmmm _ but he sounded unconvinced.

           “I’m just,” Sansa began, hoping the words to her question were written in the air. “Curious. He doesn’t talk about his work, and I rarely see him.” Both true. “All he says is his case is important, and then he switches topic.”

           “And what makes you think he’s bribing someone?”

           “I didn’t!”

           “Then why did you bring that up? Unless you’ve  _ seen  _ him talking with someone–"

           “I. Didn’t.” Sansa enunciated her words. Her hand hurt, and she realized she’d been squeezing the pill bottle so tightly the cap left heavy grooves in her palm.

           “I’m sorry, Sansa, I didn’t mean to come off like that.” Willas sounded much different now, the lightness in his voice a false mimic of what it had been when he answered. He sounded as though he were trying to...get information? As if Sansa knew anything.

           She sighed. “I’m sorry to bug you. It’s early. I don’t know why I called.”

           “No, Sansa, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pestered you like that.”

           She didn’t know what else to say. Right now, she didn’t even know  _ why _ she called Willas. Maybe it was the fact that they weren’t close (hardly as close as a soon-to-be husband and wife should be). He was like an outside party, one Sansa hoped to bounce a budding idea off of. Except, that didn’t go as well as she hoped. And right now, she didn’t have the energy to continue. Willas was too curious, and Sansa worried she would slip up and spill the true relationship between her and her uncle.

_ Three more days _ , she reminded herself.

           “Sansa?”

           Willas was still talking to her, more than trying to pull her back into reality. She heard the muffled buzz of his voice, once so stern and calm. Something was wrong, he must have understood it in the way Sansa said things without really saying things. The same way in which he knew Sansa didn’t  _ really _ love him the way a girl betrothed should. 

           “Good luck with your work,” Sansa said by way of ending the line of questioning she began. Before Willas had a chance to step in, she added, “I’ll see you at the wedding. I’ll be the one in the dress.”

           “San-!”

           Her half-hearted attempt at a joke made the smile on her lips feel even more false than all the other smiles she’d faked. Even if Willas couldn’t see it right now. Would he know, as she walked up towards him dressed in the most breathtaking gown she’d ever seen?

           Oh, of course he would. Because he loves her as much as she does.

           And right now – no, since last night, since even before that – Sansa wasn’t sure where her heart’s devotion lay.

           As for more pressing matters. The medicine bottle rattled with each turn, every falling pill a gunshot ricocheting through the haze of thoughts swirling. The name was printed in large black letters: Baelish, Petyr. Sleeping pills. It was the fullest of the bottles, whose date was long before Sansa ever considered herself parentless and alone. He worked early mornings and late nights, and came home to fuck his niece. When he slept was a mystery.

           Sansa didn’t like where her mind led her. But, she couldn’t pull herself back from the idea that her uncle  _ did _ do something. Worse than what she overheard on that  _ accidental  _ butt dial she listened in on. 

           Harry was (or, had been) in Petyr’s way of getting to Sansa. Willas was now next in Petyr’s way. But by the Old gods and the New, Sansa wasn’t going to slip up and let Petyr discover him. Not the man she was  _ actually _ betrothed to. Not the man whose ring she picked out, which was patiently waiting for her to don it on him this weekend.

           Not the man who – for better or for worse – loved her exactly the same as she did.

           Sansa had an idea what to do. She turned the bottle one way: do it. The other: don’t. Except….she wasn't sure she should do it.  _ Could _ do it.

           And Sansa – not for the first time – hated the feeling.

 


	15. petyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Alright folks. So. I know this chapter is up unbelievably late, and I am super super sorry for that! In the meantime, though, I’ve re-plotted the last half of this story, so now it will be (I hope) much better and chock-full of that good good drama! I hope you guys are alright with that, because that’s what this has become despite my best efforts to tamp it down. Oops.
> 
> So. Please forgive me, and I hope you’ll like what I’ve got coming at ya! And as also, much love to you for reading and liking this story, despite how wild it's gotten!! :* ]

 

              Petyr Baelish prided himself on his work. On his ability to separate personal from professional – even when his own wife had been working for the same firm (albeit, a different department, and thank gods for that). On the way people came to him with problems knowing Petyr would be able to  _ sort it out _ , turning a blind eye to the truth of  _ how  _ things magically found themselves  _ sorted out _ . 

              Up and up he rose because of that. Petyr never let anyone or anything get in the way of his climb, if only because he never truly cared about anyone or anything else. 

              Or, he used to.

              These past two weeks ( _ only _ two weeks, good gods, there was no way all of that happened so quickly? That damn ache in his chest, the throbbing in his cock, made it feel like it'd been  _ eons _ ) have proven...something. It would be foolish to disagree that his niece didn't have a profound effect on him. It would be foolish to disagree that Petyr hadn't an effect on Sansa, too, and not for the sake of stroking his ego. She was too innocent, too naive, to understand how to play Petyr. And by gods she  _ could _ .

              Look what he just did for her! Petyr only fucking wished he’d been there to see that fucker get his ass hauled to jail. It was bad enough he sent that text just as she hung up, and Petyr only hoped neither of them took that boy too lightly. No, of course not. He was just an entitled piece of shit who never took  _ No _ for an answer (a horrifying similarity to  _ another _ piece of shit, which made Petyr wonder somehow if that boy wasn’t a proxy for another). Granted, there was no remorse, not even the faintest whiff of it. Especially after the way that piece of shit felt entitled to the warmth between Sansa's legs, or taking her lips.

              Curious was that damned ache. It squeezed tighter just thinking about someone else being privy to Sansa: her body (oh yes, and a fucking marvelous body it was); but all of the things that made him suddenly overcome with an odd sort of possession. The truth that lemon was her favorite flavor, the way her fingers brushed her hair back behind her ears, the little tilt of her lips just before they blossomed into a full smile. 

              Oh, and all of the things that made her sigh, moan, call out his name. 

              And the soft press her her arms wrapped around him. 

_ Thank you _ .

              Petyr hadn't thought Sansa to be awake at the first streaks of sunlight. At the same time, Petyr hadn't expected her to sleep after the stunt he pulled. A blessing she was still so young (maybe. He was still working through whether Sansa’s age was a good thing to keep him from being swallowed up completely in her soul. Or, if perhaps it just made that dark hunger crave his niece that much more. Something he  _ shouldn't  _ want, but felt like he fucking needed else he’d die). 

              Well, neither of them would have slept at all if he’d had his way with her.

              Honestly, he’d been too full of nerves to sleep much, even after waking up sometime between midnight and the ass crack of dawn to jerk off to the memory of Sansa’s cunt rubbing against his cock. Petyr had  _ just  _ enough reservation to keep himself to his room rather than sneaking off for another impromptu lesson. Or from creeping on her from the doorway (again), watching the moonlight frame her perfect body in a silver shadow (again), wondering how sweet her cunt would taste, how sweet her cries would sound (again). Because  _ that _ had gone so fucking well the last time. But last time, Petyr hadn’t yet tasted his niece.

              The nerves had him calling Lothor, watching the city slowly cast off sleep up in the soft greys and blacks of pre-dawn. Not an unusual sight to Petyr. Below were the scant men and women in suits off to work hours before any of their sane coworkers; Petyr knew them (or,  _ of them _ , deigning not to speak as they did too). The wee hours between dawn and morning were the best for productivity.

              “The fuck you calling so early?” came Lothor’s gruff, sleepy voice. 

              Planting drugs would have wracked any actual law-abiding, moral worker of the force with guilt. Not Lothor. Which proved advantageous for both him and Petyr. “Everything’s in place?”

              Faintly, Petyr could hear the other man shuffling his feet, fumbling against the wall for the light switch. “I texted you last night, didn’t I?”

              Yes, but Petyr was thorough. Like all seven hells he was going to let that piece of shit get off harassing Sansa for free. Even if Sansa was by all accounts free to date (and kiss! And let boys touch her, above or beneath her clothes!) as she pleased. Petyr told her as much, and he regretted it the moment the words fell from his lips.  _ Mine _ , he heard that wicked voice whisper as he watched a bus pull away.  _ She’s all mine _ . “Yes, but a lot can have happened between last night and now.”

              “Not a whole fuck lot of sleeping, that’s for sure.”

              The lovely echo of Lothor’s words came before the sound of him pissing. He was a charming man, all the more reason why he relied on Petyr to get him whores. 

              “The girl’s all set, I imagine?” Petyr asked after the other man washed his hands.

              “What did I fucking tell you, Baelish? It’s all sorted. The shit’s there, she’s there, it’s all good. We’ll be on that kid soon enough, probably before you sit your pretty ass down.”

              Petyr couldn’t help laugh through his nose. It really was a wonder the King’s Landing police force found  _ something _ worthwhile in Lothor Brune to make the decision to promote him to a detective. Well, it was more what the chief found in his bed the night before the promotion was sent out. A sick piece of shit, that one. It took Petyr longer than he’d have liked to confirm the supposed  _ authenticity  _ of their underaged hymens. As if that was a thing that mattered. “Then you’d better get dressed, Brune, or else your bed will be awfully cold tonight.”

              Petyr hung up. 

              Just in time to see another familiar number pop up on his phone. He looked at the time, then back down at the number.  _ Surprised she’s awake _ .

              “What is it?”

              The woman’s voice on the other end was hushed, but not afraid. That was good. “They’re on their way.”

              “They’re on their way?” Petyr was surprised. Lothor was shit getting up in the morning, though that was usually the fault of the whores Petyr paid for him. Nothing but the best to make sure Lothor was keen enough to not cross him should things go to shit. They hadn’t, yet. 

              Ros continued, “Brune just messaged. Should be here in, I dunno, ten minutes? This bloke doesn’t live far, and I’m surprised he can afford some place like this. Smells new, though. Bloke’s got a girlfriend, and dick he thinks he knows how to use.” Petyr knew he should find Ros’ snooping interesting – she pretended like she didn’t do it, but it was easy enough to look around when Ros gave the guy a good enough fucking to see all the heavens – but he didn’t care about Harry other than the truth of him being cut out of society for a while. When he didn’t reply to her baiting, Ros continued: “So, what are you expecting from this?”

              “I honestly don’t care at this point.” Petyr followed a man in a light grey suit as he crossed the streets, until he turned and lost sight of him. “If you’re the go-between that’s fine, just let me know what he promised you.” 

              “Depends. How much does it cost to take a nice,  _ long _ vacation in Braavos? I’m thinking six, seven months?”

              Petyr couldn’t fight against the smile. It was always money with whores; one day, maybe they’d learn they could get whatever they very well pleased – even the fucking world itself – just by spreading their legs open and pretending like the man’s cock was the biggest they’d seen. Some knew that, but Ros was an easy woman to please. Not in bed (she faked more orgasms than she’d gotten during her jobs). Freedom to fuck who she wanted, and to get the police to turn a convenient blind eye whenever she landed up in the precinct. Between convincing the other officers not to fuck her ( _ ‘But that’s what she’s made for _ ’. Fucking disgusting), and handing her a fat stack of cash, the latter was preferable. Less messy. “That’s easy enough.”

              Ros must have noticed how easily Petyr agreed, too. But like Lothor, she didn’t care enough to ask. They weren’t  _ friends _ , the three of them, far from it. Business partners, perhaps, but not friends. “Lothor wants more.”

              “I don’t–"

              “Said that’s what you get for waking him up so bloody early. And I want a promise that if that bloke hits me again, you owe me double.”

              She sounded too certain ( _ again _ , the word echoing in Petyr’s head, and he grasped the mullion tight enough to whiten knuckles. To think what that piece of shit would have done if Sansa had surrendered herself to him! To think that fucker had been brash enough to slip his hand beneath her dress in public. Petyr couldn’t help the nagging feeling that he was wrong about Harrold being Sansa’s husband-to-be (with clarity from coming and sleep, it did sound fucking absurd), but better safe than sorry. At this point, Petyr would have to plant shit on every other guy she so much as breathes next to, just to be sure). “If that’s what you want to do, fine. I’ll find another blonde for Brune. Two.”

_ So long as that piece of shit is out of my hair, I’ll get you whatever the fuck you want _ .

              And what wouldn’t Petyr do? A curious little thought that wormed its way into his brain. Petyr shook the idea away.

              He heard the sound of Ros’ mouth opening to say something –  _ You’re way too generous this time, Baelish, what gives? What seventeen-year-old girl’s got your brain and heart and cock so twisted up you can’t even think straight? _ – but she closed it. “And the bust? Anything in particular you wanna see?”

              Petyr shrugged against his reflection. Maybe it was the grey of dawn that brought out the same in his hair, the creases of his face. Ros – from a distance, and in the murky shadows of an alley – could be Sansa. But she was too old, her breasts too big. No one would honestly believe she was young. Good thing Petyr had the cops bribed. “Honestly? Be creative. I don’t quite care at this point what happens, so long as he’s out of my hair for a while.”

              “Hm.” Which was all Ros said for a while. He pictured her pursing her lips at all the things she planned to do. “Alright, then.”

              “Good, good. I’ll meet with you before work to give you your share. Same place in–" Petyr glanced down at his watch, "–half an hour?”

              “Not sure yet. Might be, might be tonight. Depends whenever they get here–" Ros paused. “Shit, think he’s waking up.” 

              The phone cut off. Petyr nodded, hanging up on Ros without saying goodbye, either. Not friends; she had a job to do, and Petyr had a large sum of money he needed to magically siphon from the Lannisters.

              He stared out the window, fingers pressed against the cold glass. A pity it didn’t cool this ever-burning fire thrumming in his veins. It felt good,  _ great _ , made better by the knowing fact how  _ wrong _ it all was. Sansa was such a beautiful thing, a wonderful thing, Petyr couldn’t help but worry that she was struck suddenly into his life as some sort of  _ punishment _ , not a reward. The gods weren’t sick enough to give Petyr anything other than a drawn-out death, and certainly not a lithe creature the likes the gods  _ wished _ to be. Unless there was some nameless god who reveled in all the horrible things Petyr did. All of them, too many of them.

              The best of which culminated in rutting against his very underaged niece against the bathroom counter. 

              Arms wrapping around him. And she was there, brought forth by his thoughts.

              Petyr watched her reflection in the window. There was nothing but cascading auburn and ivory skin peeking out from behind him, and her pale arms ghostly grey in the morning light, wrapped tighter than he would have thought after what he’d done last night. 

              Good to know he wasn’t the only one with a chest pulled this way and that, conflicted, aching. Was it her heart he was feeling, echoing through clothe and skin and bone? Was it his heart that was responding back in kind, a fervent  _ ba-dump _ that he swore he felt reverberating down to his very toes. 

              A hug. It felt so simple an action, so  _ normal _ , as though maybe they were a typical sort of family. It felt far more perverse than what he’d done the night before, forcing his way into the shower ( _ his _ shower, he remembered) and showing Sansa...something. It wasn’t love, necessarily, if only because Petyr wasn’t really sure what love was. He certainly never felt it with Lysa, or Myranda, or any of the other women he’d bedded for the sake of alleviating a primal need.

_ Prove that you don’t love me _ , he’d said. 

              The words were faint against his back, and Petyr might have instead felt the words echoing through his skin, his bones, rather than the sweetness of her voice. 

              “Thank you.”

              He had turned around on her, hands against her arms, and words falling out before he could interrogate them in his head till they were exhausted of every possibility. “For what, sweetling?”

_ For giving you orgasms your supposed fiance only wishes he could give you? _

_ For showing you how absolutely delicious sin can be, so long as you let it pull you down into its dark embrace? _

_ For proving that you don’t love him? _

_ For proving that you do love me? _

              Petyr’s grip along her arms tightened.

              Sansa looked at him, her lips parted, her eyes shadowed in darkness. There: the same sort of uncertainty that Petyr felt gripping his chest tighter. 

              Maybe she didn’t even know  _ why _ she said it. Petyr sure as fuck didn’t.

              “How about you thank me with a kiss, sweetling?” 

              In lieu of addressing that damning ache and what consequences it would undoubtedly bring, Petyr opted for the easier route, loving the blush spreading across her cheeks.  _ Teasing _ her was something Petyr couldn’t help to do, even as he saw a similar sort of reflection in her eyes that had to be more than evident in his. If she didn’t respond in kind, it wouldn’t be quite so fun. 

              And a kiss to balance out her hug.  _ Where _ was optional, though Petyr would have been shocked should his mouth not been her first choice. Shocked, and definitely not making it to work on time.

              It was teasing. It wasn’t some deep longing for the press of her lips against his, the taste of Sansa filling his mouth. It wasn’t anything more than that.

              He was – and loath he was to admit the thought – consumed by her, a sort of hunger he began to fear wouldn’t go away after he took her. He had to try, right? He had to keep telling himself that was the solution. That Petyr wasn’t addicted to his niece, that he would be able to say goodbye to her come Saturday afternoon.

              That he wasn’t in fucking love.

              “Baelish.”

              Petyr shot his gaze towards the Lannister, a scowl creasing deep lines between his eyes, around them. Thankfully Petyr’s lack of attention didn’t come with jumping out of his seat, or swearing, or anything so blatantly  _ obvious _ . But Tywin must have noticed something enough, given the scowl full of displeasure he aimed at him.

              “Yes, sir.” Petyr brushed his hand along his jaw, wondering how obvious he’d been. It wasn’t like him to lose focus during a meeting, nor was it like him to be completely enamored by some girl (even if the idea of Sansa being  _ just some girl _ irked him). Pulling his thoughts through the murky grey of this morning (and last night, and all the nights he’d had with Sansa under that delightful little guise of  _ tutoring _ her), Petyr remembered where’d they left off. “I’ve gone through all of the evidence they’ve brought forth. Checked and double-checked, and our truths still still stand. They don’t have the money to convince otherwise.”

              Tywin’s hands were laced in front of him, his face impassive. That stoicness was what brought other men and women to their knees for fear of what lay behind green eyes. “If that’s the case, then  _ why _ are we bothering with the retrial in the first place.”

              A good question, and one Petyr truly didn’t have an answer for. Petyr fought against the nonchalant  _ the-fuck-if-I-know _ shrug. “They think they have something, but they really don’t. All of the supposed new evidence isn’t more than circumstantial. Might as well prove them wrong in court. Again. Should keep them from looking into it a third time, if that.”

              It was the same bullshit answer Petyr had given, and Tywin’s nod was the same bullshit farce of understanding. There really was no reason that Petyr could imagine why they’d be think they had something on Joffrey this time. Petyr had been incredibly thorough the last time. The reason why Tywin promoted Petyr so soon compared to other would-be-associates. Far from the fact that he and Tywin got along, but because Petyr knew how to get shit done and knew too much about his grandson.

              Speaking of, he was late. Characteristically so. They said nine so Joffrey would be here at ten, and it was already five minutes past. 

              “What would prove otherwise?” 

              Petyr looked at Tywin, trying to parse the question. “I’m sorry?”

              The Lannister looked annoyed at having to explain himself. “If they happened upon some evidence that  _ did _ otherwise prove that Joffrey was guilty, what would it be?”

              A trick question, Petyr knew. The answer was a resounding,  _ There wouldn’t be any evidence to find, because I did a damn good job covering it all up _ . As much as Petyr was confident in his abilities, he also wasn’t sure. There  _ must _ be something that they had that they were saving for bringing up in the courtroom. Something so small, so insignificant, that would blow up the minute Joffrey was questioned about it.

              “I can’t see–"

              “Because I would hate to see something happen to her.”

              Petyr’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m sorry?”

              That was twice now Petyr asked Tywin to repeat himself. The look he gave Petyr was just as impassive as all the others, but Petyr didn’t miss the shadowed threat in his gaze, his words. “A curious thing, Sansa Stark. And almost of age.”

              Joffrey shoved the door open hard enough for it to smack against the wall. 

              But Petyr stared at Tywin, doing his best to keep his face as bored as the old fucker’s.  _ He doesn’t know. _

              He couldn’t know.

              Tywin spoke as his grandson was getting settled on the other side of the table. He didn’t bother putting his drink on a coaster, a smear of water on the mahogany. “Joffrey. Now that you’ve arrive, run through it again. What were you doing the night of the accident.”

              “I just got here…” The boy rolled his eyes, not bothering to reign in the drawl of boredom. He had the audacity to scroll through his phone, something that would have had anyone else on their asses outside in half a heartbeat. Huffing, the boy finally answered, “Nothing, really. It wasn’t a very exciting night until shit happened. Just enjoying my fucking–"

              “Language,” Tywin interrupted. Joffrey was Lannister enough, but the judge wouldn’t care; anything to see the Lannister’s fall from grace. Petyr had most of the judges in King’s Landing bribed (and a few in other counties). They  _ should _ be fine as far as judges go. But it was always best to assume the judge would have a massive stick up their ass, looking for the smallest slight.

              Joffrey shot his grandfather a look, but when the boy glanced back at Petyr he saw the fire tampered down. “I was just driving around  _ the night of the accident _ ,” he mimicked. “Just driving down along the Bay, enjoying the scenery and all that sh– stuff. Nothing like a bit of fun before my eighteenth.”

              “At nearly midnight? Bit late for a drive, wouldn’t you say?”

              They’d gone about this mock-interrogation for what felt like fucking years. The reason Tywin kept bringing Petyr in for these meetings was  _ because _ the boy was so shit at lying. Petyr had thought it ran through Lannister blood as thickly as pride did. Each day, Joffrey came in more pissed and arrogant, and maybe by the time Monday rolled by Joffrey would just flat-out admit to the truth. 

              Which, Petyr couldn’t afford. Nor could Tywin. 

              It was a fucking miracle last time that Joffrey kept his shit together. And the prosecutor were certain to counter Joffrey’s current answers with the ones he’d given last time. After all, if Joffrey had been telling the truth, there wouldn’t –  _ shouldn’t _ – be inconsistencies in his story.

              And yet: here they were, half a week from the pretrial, and still working on his story.

              The boy combed his golden hair with his fingers. It was lighter than that fucker’s, and Petyr wondered how good a show he gave before getting his ass handed to him. “Yeah, I was driving around at midnight. So? Not a fu-, not a crime. Besides, there’s no one else on the roads that late, and it’s perfect for getting my baby roaring–"

              “Don’t.” Tywin interrupted. “I told you, don’t give them more information than they need.”

              Joffrey huffed a sigh. “This is so fucking stupid.”

              Tywin ignored that. “And were you in a sober state of mind when you were driving that late at night?”

              The boy got a faraway look, remembering all of the shit he’d taken that night. He was one-hundred-percent  _ not _ in a sober state of mind, and it wasn’t just because of what he had to look forward to the next day. Petyr had been in the same room when his grandfather brought up that foolish plan, and Joffrey lasted all of five seconds before storming out, a trail of curses all starting with  _ fuck _ or  _ fucking _ following him. Where Joffrey went between that and the accident wasn’t hard to guess. There were at least two bars on every street in the heart of King’s Landing, and twice as many people in the shadows offering different sorts of release. Sex, drugs, you name it.

              He finally replied with the only answer he  _ could _ give. “Yeah, I was sober.”

              “Don’t do that.” Petyr interrupted.

              “Do  _ what _ ?” Joffrey sneered. The boy liked his grandfather enough, but he never was fond of Petyr. Probably because Petyr knew too much. Or, probably because Petyr’s blood didn’t run the same haughty crimson as theirs did (as if they would die any differently than him).

              Tywin answered for Petyr: “Don’t be so obvious. I’m sure you remember the last time. And this time, they’ll be working to pry apart your story until they find something to question you about. Until you say the  _ wrong gods-damned thing _ .”

              The wrong thing being the truth.

              “Can’t you just  _ buy _ the judge and the jury and all that shit?” Joffrey countered – not for the first time. The boy was far too fucking rash and prideful, a trait that had sent his mother to premature obscurity. “Yeah, I fucking remember last time, it was a pain in the ass. Why do I even  _ have _ to go through this shit again? Baelish already proved I was innocent!”

              For one half heartbeat of fleeting understanding, Petyr and Tywin shared a look of exasperation. Petyr wondered how often the old fuck regretted his children not being interested in taking over the family firm (and actually being  _ good _ at it). None of his children or grandchildren save for Joffrey was keen (and had a dick), though they all knew Joffrey wanted it for the  _ power _ and  _ prestige _ being the head of the biggest law firm brought. Not all the work, and late nights, and grey hair.

              Joffrey balding with grey was a sight if there ever would be one. Petyr choked back a laugh.

              “If you want to stay innocent,” Tywin answered back, his voice flat and deep that even Petyr felt the creeping chill up his spine. “Then you better learn to get your story straight before you send everything to hells.”

              Joffrey’s jaw clenched tight as he stared daggers at his grandfather. Because (as much as Petyr hated just thinking the thought) Tywin was right.

              A harsh chirping broke the sudden silence.

              It was Tywin’s phone, and Petyr wasn’t nearly an idiot enough to call the old man out for it. Joffrey wasn’t either, but he probably just didn’t care, like how he barely cared enough to show up for these debriefings. That disinterest was what Petyr and Tywin were trying to (and for the most part, today notwithstanding, succeeding) at batting away until the trial was over. So long as Joffrey remembered the lies the way Petyr wrote them, the boy could go gloating after they’d won.

              Tywin, on the other hand, stared down at the caller id with his usual stoic face, but there was displeasure written in the minute shift of the lines around his mouth and eyes. That, and the fact he stepped outside before answering made Petyr curious. 

              Joffrey lounged back in his seat, chair squeaking, scrolling through gods-knew-what on his phone. Petyr didn’t rightly care; the IT people in the firm managed to block Joffrey’s social media on the off chance he’d post dumb shit there, too. They were lucky he’d been too out of it the night of the accident to do the same, but Joffrey’s accounts wouldn’t have been the first – nor the last – they expunged truth from.

              Petyr couldn’t see Tywin’s silhouette through the frosted glass, so he must have gone back to his own office to take the call. There were few people Petyr could think off the top of his head who it might be. The Eastmarches, whose highly unethical business practices shot them from millionaires to billionaires quicker than their overworked employees could drop dead on the factory floor. Thom Shutterly, that disgusting politician who Petyr hated getting bodies for (if only because he wanted them as  _ fresh _ as possible. Petyr wasn’t one to judge sexual tastes, but he did make few exceptions). He was shortlisted for director of war. Apt.

              Back to Joffrey, still scrolling through listlessly, leaving shoe prints on the black leather. There was someone Petyr had to call, too. “Excuse me a minute.” The boy didn’t even pretend to look interested.

              The glass was cool against his back as he listened to the sound of the receiver on the other end.

              “DId you lose her again?”

              Kella’s voice was teasing, Petyr knew, but he couldn’t help the shot of cold ice that traveled down each bone of his spine. “Good morning to you too, Kella.”

              He could see the smirk fading away at the fact Petyr didn’t play along. And he usually gave Kella as good as she gave, knowing the woman knew too much to be an asshole to. It was a rude disposition and small pay that had working hands sneaking around their master’s backs and whispering secrets for bags heavy with money. Petyr knew (or liked to think he knew) that there was too much history between him and Kella for her to ever stoop so low as to tattle on him; and in the same vein, that Petyr would ever treat her like shit. 

              He’d just been on edge these past weeks, a weight against his shoulders growing heavier with each passing day. He didn’t know  _ why _ , other than the fact that it all could be traced back to a lithe nymph with autumn hair and a mouth that hungered for him. A mouth that looked so pretty stretched around that dildo he bought her, or suckling come off his fingers.

              “...Petyr?”

              He shook his mind clear. “Yes, sorry, someone was talking with me.”

              Kella didn’t buy it, but she didn’t say so. “I was asking why you called? I’m on my way to your apartments, if you needed me to pick up something on the way?”

              “No, but thank you.” Petyr kept it short, knowing Tywin would be back any second. “I’d like you to keep an eye on Sansa.”

              Petyr saw the woman narrow her eyes through the handset. “You mean, more than the usual?”

              He didn’t like the implication of those words. But Sansa  _ had _ ran off to Highgarden without Petyr knowing (even if, yes, she technically wrote a note for him. But who’s to say she didn’t go telling her adopted family of the wicked things her horrible uncle did to her whilst she was here? Or that she had a secret rendezvous with her not-fiance (it was the way she  _ lied _ that made Petyr sure there  _ was _ a Mr Sansa Stark. Maybe not fiance, maybe just a high school fling, but still)? Or that she went straight to the source of Petyr’s current troubles and told them that shadowy bit of truth that would upend all of his careful work?

              He liked to think she did none of those. Sansa – for all legal purposes – was still Petyr’s. Another truth he wondered about too often.

              “Not in a creepy way, mind,” Petyr clarified, as if spying on someone in any way or form wasn’t already classified as creepy. “I’m just...concerned. What with her having gone off last time, and what with that boy being arrested this morning for sleeping with an underage girl–"  _ a very-much-not-underaged whore _ . 

              “He  _ what _ .”

              “Oh, hadn’t you heard?” Petyr shrugged, passing off the gossip he’d heard of one Harry Hardyng and his proclivities for drugs and whores. Petyr planted the lies as easily to his housekeeper as he did to everyone else. “..and with a couple of pounds of coke found under his mattress.” Or so Petyr assumed that’s where Lothor stashed it.

              “Oh, gods,” Kella said finally when Petyr had finished his rehearsed lines. “Of course I’ll keep an eye on Sansa. Gods, to think I encouraged her to go out with that boy.”

              “It’s alright, Kella. You couldn’t have known.” Petyr drew circles with his finger on the glass behind him. There it was again: that gnawing uncertainty that he rushed into that plot too quickly. “Are you  _ certain _ it was Harry.” 

              “I…” she began, trying to think on whatever conversation she had with Sansa. Only a week and some change ago, but maybe to Kella that had felt like a lifetime, too. “No. Sorry, Petyr. She was smart enough to keep his name out of it, as far as I can remember. But...gods, sleeping with whores and doing drugs…” Disappointed  _ tsk _ s filled his ear. At Harry, or Sansa, or herself? Maybe they were directed at Petyr, for falling so hard and fast.

              He heard the old fucker’s footsteps before he saw him. Petyr didn’t like how clipped they were, nor did he want to be caught dealing with personal shit at work. Tywin fired enough newcomers for that with hardly a word. Petyr gave a quick, “Thanks, Kels,” and hung up.

              And there was Tywin, striding through with a look of murder on his face. He had his overcoat slung on, buttoning them up from the bottom towards a silk crimson and gold scarf loosely tied around his neck. It matched the embroidered lion on the coat’s breast. The Lannisters were nothing but proud of their heritage, and Petyr couldn’t deny they at least put enough of their money to use on looking smart. Too many people with scores of cash enough to dress the entire country in silk didn’t bother dressing up themselves, and that irked Petyr.

              He watched Tywin beeline past him, past the conference room where his bored, guilty grandson sat, straight towards the elevators. He turned only when the soft  _ ding _ of the button was pressed, and looked at Petyr.

              From this distance, Petyr knew it wasn’t a kind look. It was the same he’d given Petyr when he threatened Sansa –  _ twice _ , now – and Petyr smashed his fist into the glass. 

              Tywin did and said nothing as he disappeared through the elevator doors.

              Petyr pushed the glass door open enough to lock it against the wall. Joffrey, for his credit, looked as bored as ever. If Petyr didn’t know better, he’d think the boy had perfected the art of looking bored whilst eavesdropping. But Petyr  _ did _ know better. Joffrey just wanted to get the hell out of there.

              “Your grandfather’s just left for an important meeting with a client,” Petyr lied, though it was likely close enough to the truth. “He wants us to run through the story one last time today, and we can work through it again tomorrow morning.”

              “Seriously?” Joffrey said without looking up from his phone.“Haven’t we gone over this enough? I’m so fucking  _ bored _ of this shit.”

_ You aren’t the only one _ . Petyr moved to collect the few bits of papers on the table, counting them as he shoved them into a folder. All accounted for. “True, but we wouldn’t want to make an ass of ourselves in the pretrial, or we’ll have to go through an actual trial. And  _ then _ you’d definitely be bored out of your mind.”

_ And then you’d definitely be locked away _ . Not like everything was riding on getting the case dismissed before it saw the light of an actual court. But Petyr – and everyone included – didn’t want to deal with the headache of it.

              Joffrey tossed his phone onto the table. The spiderweb of cracks on it caught the light. For a phone as expensive as it was, one would think they’d build the screens stronger. “Fine. Let’s get through it,  _ again _ . I’ve got shit to do. You know I’ve got finals coming up, right?”

_ And you’re telling me you’re actually studying? _

              “Then at the expense of not making a fool of yourself at university, you’d better make sure you don’t get thrown in jail before you graduate.”

              Joffrey stood up. His shoes left a smear of dirt on the front of the chair he’d been using as a footrest. Joffrey leaned against the back of another, his green eyes narrowed, his lips curled in a sneer. “Are you  _ threatening _ me, Baelish?”

              Petyr fought against a smile. Oh, if Joffrey thought he was intimidating him, he was even more delusional than ever. It was advice: don’t fuck your life up by getting thrown in jail. How in seven hells did Joffrey take that the wrong way? But Petyr – being  _ lowly _ and of a  _ poor _ family – could hardly say anything of the sort. Joffrey might be the grandson of the owner and next in line to succeed after he graduated, but that didn’t make him in any way fit to take over.

              Assuming he made it through the trial. 

              And  _ then _ , well, Petyr supposed the boy’s ego would only get worse. It was one thing his uncle never found law fascinating, and another that his mother had been kicked out of the firm because of certain  _ scandals _ . But Joffrey being next in line to quote-unquote  _ inherit _ the throne of Lannister & Baratheon? Petyr would fucking quit the day before that happened.

              “Of course I’m not, Joffrey.” No  _ sirs _ because he still was a boy, a child. So perturbed at the smallest slight Petyr wondered how often the old fucker secretly prayed that Joffrey wouldn’t royally fuck everything up. Maybe Tywin’s retirement plan was croaking before Joffrey made a right shit of his firm. “I’m a lawyer, not an idiot.”

              The jab flew over the boy’s head. “Good. ‘Cause if you did, I’d have you hanged.”

              Joffrey grabbed his stuff and marched out. Petyr didn’t bother reigning him back in; he was as done with Joffrey and this case as the boy was. And with Tywin out of the office, there wasn’t anyone else that Joffrey would listen to.

              A literal child, that one.

              Petyr swung by the kitchen to make himself a mint tea – dealing with the pleasantries of the coworkers who were there, asking about their weekend plans, about their children and pets – all before shutting the door to his office and metaphorically throwing the mask against the wall.

              Exhausting. 

              The tea helped, and the other lawyers and juniors made it easy to ignore the box of lemon tea sitting beside his usual. He knew he’d be craving Sansa’s mouth with every sip.

              Petyr pressed his fingers against closed eyes, feeling the muscles strain as he rolled them beneath eyelids. He wasn’t  _ tired _ in the normal sense like usual: too many cases, too much caffeine, and a desire to sleep anywhere but at home where his ex-wife would pout and complain and  _ coerce  _ him into something resembling love. Oh no, Petyr would much rather curl up awkwardly beneath his desk than go home to  _ that _ .

              But what if he had someone else to go home to that he actually liked? What if – like last weekend – he came home to a fresh meal and light conversation. He came home to a night promised with curling up on the couch leading to inevitable sex. Sex they both wanted, more than the pleasantries leading up to it. Maybe they’d get to the point where Sansa would be waiting for him to walk through the door, offering to suck him off to relieve stress from a long day at work.

              Perish the thought.

              His phone rang, and he grabbed it, tucking it between cheek and shoulder as his fingers flipped through papers. He wasted enough of the day dealing with Joffrey. “Baelish.”

              “Mr Baelish, sir?”

              It took too long for Petyr to place the voice. “Oh, Olyvar.”

              “Ye– oh-, yes, sir, it’s me. Hi.”

              Petyr moved his hand down his cheek, scratching the line of his jaw. He got around to shaving, finally, looking for errant pricks of hair with his fingernails. There weren’t any. “Is there something wrong? I thought the Ryehouse research was going fine?”

              “It is, sir, thanks for asking.” Petyr wasn’t, not really. Ryehouse was a smaller politician, and in order to keep his tryst with his secretary (so cliche) secret from his wife and child, Ryehouse would drug their meals before sneaking off for a fuck. Or – as when he was caught – thrilling on taking his secretary there in bed next to his sleeping wife. Needless to say, he got the dosage wrong.

              Olyvar had to go check what constituted legal where drugs and office romances were concerned. It wasn’t a difficult case, but it wasn’t one Petyr was one bit keen on dealing with.  _ Thank the gods for interns _ . And Olyvar was rather pleasant. Keen to learn, smart enough to stay out of Petyr’s personal life, and the fact that he detested Myranda just as much as Petyr did made Petyr like the boy more. And he was eager to please. If only Petyr could send someone else away with a flick of his hand. Olyvar continued, “It’s just, um, well–"

              Petyr finished off the dregs of his tea, slamming the mug down on his desk harder than he intended. “Spit it out, Olyvar, I don’t have all day.” 

              Petyr heard the boy take a breath on the other side of the line. “It’s, um, your niece, sir.”

              That had Petyr shooting up from his chair, the seat spinning until it hit the edge of the desk.  _ It’s nothing _ , he told himself, but even as he heard the voice whisper it it sounded uncertain. “My niece?”  _ Sansa _ .

              He could practically hear the boy gnawing on his lower lip, suddenly regretting calling Petyr. But Petyr was the one person standing between Olyvar and a reputation in this city in law (or just a reputation in general. There was a reason everyone else loathed going against Lannister & Baratheon). It was only seconds, maybe less than that, before Olyvar spoke again, but Petyr could have sworn it was an hour, two, just from the count of his heartbeats. “Nothing really, sir, honestly. I just, well, I  _ thought  _ I saw her? But you know what, now that I think about it, I think it wasn’t her.” He let out a weak laugh. “School’s just been busy, ya know? Too much coffee, and between work and studying…” 

              Petyr desperately wanted Olyvar to cut the crap and tell the truth. He opened his mouth to say as much-

              -but nothing came out.

              Because the Petyr Baelish that Olyvar – that anyone – knew wasn’t one to really  _ care _ about people. It was work work work. To the point where Petyr was planning interviews and fudging evidence in his dreams. Seven hells, Petyr spent the majority of his life (not just waking hours, but all hours) working long before he rose up as an associate here. 

              So, he couldn’t let the boy get the hint of how deep Petyr’s feelings were for Sansa. Nor could Petyr let on to a certain old fucker that Sasna was actually someone to him. Sansa was  _ just _ a short-term inconvenience. Sansa was  _ just  _ his late wife’s niece, a bit of family – that until two weeks – ago Petyr never knew existed. Lysa had done her part as soon as Catelyn and Ned died to rid herself of her sister’s children, so quick Petyr hadn’t the chance to review the paperwork let alone get a single  _ Hello _ in before they were each shipped off across Westeros. Lysa cooed about how they  _ Now had so much time together, alone, just the two of us _ , and Petyr half-wished he had Stark’s kids as an excuse to keep Lysa at bay. Robert had been enough of an excuse, his sickness proving useful during moments when Petyr wanted anything but to stay in his wife’s presence. 

              The world knew Petyr as someone who had loved his wife and stepson enough to feel something akin to sadness at their weddings, but anything else? No. 

              And Petyr fucking hated this, hated himself. He’d always known love was a weakness of sorts, something he forced himself into for the sake of appeasing the crowds. Being a workaholic looked less insane if he had a family back home. Lysa was – had been – a useful inconvenience. 

              But love?

              No.  _ No _ . That’s not what  _ this _ was, far from it. Petyr knew he should fucking  _ laugh _ at the possibility of him falling in anything close to love with a girl half his age and under his care because her aunt – his wife – had taken to a sudden illness. If Robert hadn’t suddenly shook himself to death, and if Lysa hadn’t taken the emptiness of her son in her life so fatally, Petyr wouldn’t be in this position where he was even  _ considering _ the language of his heartbeats.

              Petyr Baelish never loved anyone but himself. And even  _ that _ relationship was tenuous.

              “...sir?”

              Olyvar’s voice sounded as confused as Petyr felt. Petyr shook his head, moving the phone away to take a deep breath, two. “My niece is old enough to do as she pleases,” he said finally. And yet, Petyr stormed in on her  _ just last night _ for doing that. “Though, if it  _ was  _ her, and you happen to run into her again, tell her her uncle says  _ Hello. _ ” And because he couldn’t help himself: “And that he says he’ll be home in time for another lesson.”

              Petyr could practically see the boy’s perfect brows crease down the center of his face. Petyr added, “That’s all, Waters.”

              “Oh, uh, alright sir. Goodbye.”

              Petyr cut the call without saying anything else. As though that old fucker Lion was rubbing off on him.

              He leaned back against his chair. His fingers pressed against closed eyelids until the shifting phantasmas transformed into a never-ending darkness. Slithers of light snuck in, white and red, webbing across the darkness.

              And then they transformed. Into Sansa. Into the simultaneous angel she was – so innocent, so pure, thinking she could outsmart him – and the devil she didn’t even know she was – her pretty mouth lapping over his fingers as she hungrily ate their come, her body arching into his touch, her cries as she came. Ushering Petyr to do  _ more _ , to give her more, everything.

              Gods, Saturday couldn’t come quick enough. Petyr knew he’d be waiting just outside her bedroom, watching the slow ticking of the seconds count down to midnight. Barging in and showing her what all of her teasing led up to, and what she should expect should she continue toying with Petyr like the seductress she didn’t know she was.

              Unless he teased her all Friday night, bringing her so close to the edge and pulling back just before her orgasm crashed through her. Thrusting his cock in as the clock struck midnight, her scream of release and the stretching of her cunt by her own naught uncle’s cock ushering Sansa into adulthood.

              Or, he could make her wait. Made Sansa – knowing the depravity of his soul – wait in edge in the darkness, watching her clock, knowing Petyr was bound to come in and demand her virginity any second. He would take it, of course he would. But not before torturing Sansa until she had to touch herself to release some of the pressure of the unknown. And then torture her a different way for not letting Petyr’s fingers be the first to claim her adult cunt.

              Or...well, a thousand other possibilities.

              There were only a few unchecked boxes in the I’d-be-lying-if-I-said-I-never-thought-about-it-before list. And that was only because Petyr didn’t want to scare her off completely. No point in feeling the sweetness of her cunt wrapped around him just to have her run away to Highgarden into the arms of some green boy.

              It shifted, that vision, between something along the lines of romantic and something straight out of a porno. And not a kind one.

              The anger of Harry’s existence had the Sansa in his dreams surrendered beneath him.  _ You think you can go around toying with every boy you meet?  _ Sansa couldn’t get a word in, her mouth full of his cock, come and spit trickling down the edges to mix with the come and spit the last time Petyr fucked her senseless.  _ Why, sweetling? So you can rile up your poor uncle who stayed up late worrying about his niece? _ He trailed his hands behind him, finding purchase over her breasts before pinching taut nipples. Hard.  _ You like being a brat, don’t you, sweetling? You like being naughty, don’t you? _ Sansa’s reply was lost to the harsh gagging around his cock, but he knew what she would say.

              Petyr leaned down and kissed the top of her sweat-soaked head.  _ This is what you want, isn’t it, Sansa? _

              Opening his eyes, Petyr heard the thunder of his heart, felt it rumbling down his entire body. He licked his lips, upset he didn’t have the real thing. Suddenly, Petyr was disappointed he hadn’t taken things further with Sansa the last time she’d been here. That would have made great fodder for jacking off in his office. And also would have made him completely unresponsive in board meetings when all he could think about was where he spread Sansa down on the conference table and watched their combined come drip down onto the carpet.

              Oh, he’d have to go upstairs during lunch, for sure.

              A pity the only woman who had been in his office was the second-to-last woman Petyr wanted to imagine, the first being his dead wife. And maybe he should have counted himself lucky that Myranda hadn’t stormed in just then with promises to take care of the hard-on between his legs.  _ She _ was a problem of her own, one unlike that fucker who – Petyr checked his watch – was definitely tossed behind bars by now. Lothor hadn’t sent his  _ Done _ text yet, but Petyr was far from worried. That man wouldn’t let some college kid get in the way of busty brunettes and blondes simultaneously sucking his cock. Lothor was such a simple a man to please.

              Not to mention Ros, who he had to meet with after work. She was fine save for a bruised cheek. Petyr would leave an extra tip, on top of the massive pay she too-easily swindled out of him. Not even swindled. Asked. Ros did herself a disservice not asking for more in Petyr’s distraction.

              A few strokes of his cock eased the ache, but damn if he didn’t want to sink into Sansa right this second. He was about to say  _ fuck it _ to his birthday rule. 

              Combing his fingers through his hair, Petyr grunted as he leaned forward back into the unfortunate doldrum of work. It wasn’t that he hated his work (although the cases, at times, became repetitive. Someone doing dumb shit they definitely shouldn’t have been – and definitely knew they shouldn’t have been doing in the first place – only finding their conscious when they’d been caught. Except, their conscious was far from moral if they came begging with pockets full of money for Petyr and company to get them out of their shit scot-free).

              The work was enjoyable, so long as Petyr shoved down his own morals. Down, down, way down to some dark part inside where he wasn’t even sure he knew how to find his way back. Assuming there was a shred of morals, of decency, left. Petyr was as guilty as most who exited those shining elevators. The only difference was Petyr never got caught.

              The fun in it was knowing it was a battle to win. The men and women and companies Lannister & Baratheon represented were (for lack of a better phrase) pieces of shit. They were so profoundly guilty, no one should even consider the opposite. But that was the trick: toying the rules, toying reality, until there came a unanimous declaration that they weren’t guilty at all.

              Petyr skimmed through a new case brief that found its way atop his desk when he’d been debriefing Joffrey. More of the same, except it was a woman who’d been charged with the same as Ryehouse. His stomach churned at reading the debrief: the woman, tired of her husband, drugged him and had sex with his sleeping body. He reported waking up to the cries of his wife orgasm, calling out to the gods to be kind and place his baby into her belly. 

              No, it was much worse than the Ryehouse case. The edge of the folder was bent beneath his fingers.

              His phone went off, and Petyr gratefully accepted the call without checking. Must be Olyvar. “Baelish.”

              “Petyr? It’s me again.” 

              Olyvar didn’t sound like Olyvar. Because it was Kella.

              “Kella?”

              “Did Sansa say she had plans today?”

              Petyr flicked his gaze up at the window. The hall beyond was empty, but for one horrible heartbeat he swore he saw Tywin standing there, watching him squirm. A creeping smile breaking the hardened Lion’s mask. No, no, there was no way Tywin would know anything else than the fact that Petyr was merely hosting his niece. Paranoia and fear, that’s all it was. It still turned his veins cold. “No, not that I know of.”

              “Well,” Kella began, and Petyr heard the soft creaking of doors opening and closing. She was in his apartments, he knew. “I’ll be blunt, then, but you’re not going to be keen about it.”

              “Spit it out, Kels.”

              “Sansa’s not at home.”

              Petyr felt his chest freeze before falling straight through his body. The papers in his hand fell in an untidy mess around his feet. “She  _ what _ .”

              Kella was doing her best to keep her voice steady, but it was clear: she was anxious, worried, and maybe a little scared. “What you said earlier, about that boy? You were joking or…?”

              “I’ve dealt with that fucker,” Petyr growled, his mouth pushing the words out faster than his brain could reign them in. His teeth bit down on his lips; it wasn’t like Kella was unused to the sorts of things Petyr did, but that was for work. 

              And maybe the revelation that Harry  _ just happened _ to be found with a whore and a fat package of drugs finally clicked in Kella’s mind. It was evident in the pause before she spoke again. “Well, Petyr. I…”

              “ _ What _ .” He hated the tension in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. It wrapped around his chest, had his fingers wrapped against the edge of the desk until he felt his bones screaming. Petyr ignored the harsh whispers in his head, wished he could ignore the truth Kella was biting back.

              “Are you  _ sure _ she didn’t say anything?”

              “Yes, I’m sure.” Petyr couldn’t get the words out fast enough.  _ Tell me _ , part of him screamed.  _ Don’t, _ the other part yelled.

              Kella was still walking through the apartments, he could faintly hear the creaking of doors still. “Because her stuff’s, well, its’ all packed up. Her clothes, her bathroom things, everything. Her suitcase is gone.”

              He’d barely heard her last words through the thrum of blood in his ears.

              “She’s gone, Petyr.”

 


End file.
